"I've seen him some years ago, I believe," answered Wood; "and, though he must be much changed by this time, I dare say I should know him again. . —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. I’ll drive you home once my buzz goes away. Spurling and Marvel rose too. It’s the only clean way for us.
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