She hated living like that. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. God knows how you did it. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. "Don't mention it," returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who admits he has been in the wrong; "your explanation is perfectly satisfactory. "Oh, God! that I might die too," cried Jack, falling on his knees beside her. John moved closer to her, getting up from his roost by one bench, he joined her at the bench where she sat.
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