At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. "No; I don't think I'd laugh. " "No more of this," rejoined Thames, "or we shall quarrel. “I mean REALLY independent. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime.
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