Besides, a wealthy despot, with no conception of any hum around him, will have the wags in his track as surely as the flexibles in front: they avenge his exactions.
Fleetwood was honestly unaware of ridicule in the condition of inventive mania at his heels.

Scheming, and hesitating to do, one-half of his mind was absorbed with the problem of how now to treat the mother of his boy.

Her behaviour in becoming a mother was acknowledged to be good: the production of a boy was good--considerate, he almost thought.

He grew so far reconciled to her as to have intimations of a softness coming on; a wish to hear her speak of the trifling kindness done to the sister of Madge in reward of kindness done to her; wishes for looks he remembered, secret to him, more his own than any possessions.

Dozens of men had wealth, some had beautiful wives; none could claim as his own that face of the look of sharp steel melting into the bridal flower, when she sprang from her bed to defend herself and recognized the intruder at her window; stood smitten:--'It is my, husband.' Moonlight gave the variation of her features.
And that did not appease the resentment tearing him from her, so justifiable then, as he forced himself to think, now hideous.