The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. "By Heaven!" cried he in a tone of surprise, "you have an infant there?" "To be sure I have," replied Wood, angrily; for, finding that the intentions of the stranger were pacific, so far as he was concerned, he thought he might safely venture on a slight display of spirit. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son. That he should pay forty pounds to help this girl who preferred another man was no less in his eyes than a fraud and mockery that made her denial a maddening and outrageous disgrace to him.
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