"If this document is correct," continued Wood, "and I am persuaded it is so,— you are as unfortunate as wicked. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. Nothing disheartened by this survey, Jack set to work upon the lock, which he attacked with all his implements;—now attempting to pick it with the nail;— now to wrench it off with the bar: but all without effect. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. It was scarcely likely that she would have accepted his aid. He wasn't quite hard enough to win worldly success; that was his fault.
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