But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. Your fingers are even now as stiff as a schoolgirl’s. "Zounds! what's that!" he cried, as the noise of a scuffle was heard behind them. "You'll not be offended, I hope," returned Wood, drily, "if I say that your voice, your manner, and, above all, your very extraordinary way of laughing, put me strangely in mind of one of the 'droll dogs,' (as you term them,) who helped to perpetrate the outrage I've just described. The ragged edge.
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