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Wood. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. " And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust.
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