I had reasons for my silence; _she_ was one of them," jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the parlor above, whence the voice of the amiable Gwendolin Makepeace floats to their ears.
"In haste, then, let me tell you a secret, John.

I was not always what you see me, a docile, hen-pecked man.

Twenty-five years ago Philander Sharpe, young, good-looking, conceited, and rich, had the world before him." "Cut it short, I beg, professor," groans John, impatient to be off.
"I fell in love; my affection was returned; we were engaged; a friend in whose honor I fully believed stole her heart away from me, but all these years I have never forgotten--never.

John Craig, the girl I loved and who was to have been my wife was--your mother." The little man folds his arms and throws his head back in a peculiar way he has.

How strangely full of dignity these undersized people can be at times.
"Is it possible, and you never breathed a word of all this to me before ?" "Ah! my dear boy, the time was not ripe.