It must have happened scores of times before old Mr.
Verity, your namesake, put a stop to the iniquity by buying The Hard--I have only heard the ponies driven once, about this time in September last year--just before something very sad, quite of my own, happened"-- Damaris stopped, her lips quivering again and too much for speech.
"Don't tell me any more.

I can't bear you to be distressed.

Pray, pray don't"-- the young man urged incoherently while his grasp on her elbow tightened somewhat.
For he felt curiously flurried and put about; near cursing himself moreover for having helped to break up her high serenity thus.

The whole thing was manifestly impossible as he told himself, outside every recognized law of Nature and sound science.

Even during the mistrustful phantasy-breeding watches of the night, when reason inclines to drag anchor setting mind and soul rather wildly adrift, he had refused credence to the apparent evidence of his own senses.