A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. ’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers. "Well, like or not, I'm greatly pleased with it, and must beg it from you as a memorial——" "Of what?" she interrupted, startled by his change of manner. " "And why not, old saltwater?" inquired Ben, turning a quid in his mouth. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous. ” “Oh, neat.
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