“Dear husband,” she murmured. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. "Drink your peg; don't bother about me. Gracious, there’s the gong. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. Young and old were dressed in their gayest apparel; and it was evident from the smiles that lighted up every countenance, from the roguish looks of the younger swains, and the demure expression of several pretty rustic maidens, that a ceremony, which never fails to interest all classes,—a wedding,—was about to take place. But all this business has driven it clean out of my head.
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