"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. E. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Or perhaps my father once. The one problem was that it didn’t fly. Gosse had to release his clamp on her mouth, for the awkwardness of the position made it impossible to negotiate the little stair. The practice has been common for thousands of years.
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