"I've proofs to the contrary," replied Jonathan. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. But if he starts a long jog, his name is Dennis. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. “I’m not so sure. Is all that folly done with—for ever?” Annabel shivered ever so slightly.
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