Tinman tore away.

“You mistake, you mistake, you’re entirely wrong,” he said, as he pursued with desperation his task of rendering every word unreadable.

Van Diemen stood fronting him; the accumulation of stores of petty injuries and meannesses which he had endured from this man, swelled under the whip of the conclusive exhibition of treachery.  He looked so black that Annette called, “Papa!”

“Philip,” said Tinman.  “Philip! my best friend!”

“Pooh, you’re a poor creature.  Come along and breakfast at Elba, and you can sleep at the Crouch, and goodnight to you.  Crickledon,” he called to the houseless couple, “you stop at Elba till I build you a shop.”

With these words, Van Diemen led the way, walking alone.  Herbert was compelled to walk with Tinman.

Mary and Annette came behind, and Mary pinched Annette’s arm so sharply that she must have cried out aloud had it been possible for her to feel pain at that moment, instead of a personal exultation, flying wildly over the clash of astonishment and horror, like a sea-bird over the foam.

In the first silent place they came to, Mary murmured the words:  “Little Jane.”

Annette looked round at Mrs. Crickledon, who wound up the procession, taking little Jane by the hand.  Little Jane was walking demurely, with a placid face.  Annette glanced at Tinman.  Her excited feelings nearly rose to a scream of laughter.  For hours after, Mary had only to say to her:  “Little Jane,” to produce the same convulsion.  It rolled her heart and senses in a headlong surge, shook her to burning tears, and seemed to her ideas the most wonderful running together of opposite things ever known on this earth.  The young lady was ashamed of her laughter; but she was deeply indebted to it, for never was mind made so clear by that beneficent exercise.

     ETEXT editor’s bookmarks: 

     Adversary at once offensive and helpless provokes brutality
     Causes him to be popularly weighed
     Distinguished by his not allowing himself to be provoked
     Eccentric behaviour in trifles
     Excited, glad of catastrophe if it but killed monotony
     Generally he noticed nothing
     Good jokes are not always good policy
     I make a point of never recommending my own house
     Indulged in their privilege of thinking what they liked
     Infants are said to have their ideas, and why not young ladies? 
     Lend him your own generosity
     Men love to boast of things nobody else has seen
     Naughtily Australian and kangarooly
     Not in love—­She was only not unwilling to be in love
     Rich and poor ’s all right, if I’m rich and you’re poor
     She began to feel that this was life in earnest
     She dealt in the flashes which connect ideas
     She sought, by looking hard, to understand it better
     Sunning itself in the