But a far greater affliction was in store for her. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse. She had trouble outwitting him as he seemed to predict her words before he said them. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. And two other ladies. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance.
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