Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. "See the devil!—not I," cried Wood impatiently. “Please stop fighting me. And I find I can't tell one stay from another!" McClintock laughed. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. The fever came. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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