“Call me Cathy, John. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. "This she-devil has got hold of the sack. “How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. She would have to leave very soon. Leave the means to me. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. You must keep out of the way till it's blown over. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain, though he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she travelled by night.
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