He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. ” “You will have no objection to his remaining here?” he asked. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Then he put the paper by. T’weren’t fitting, we knew that. There’s nothing a girl can do that isn’t sweated to the bone. He lit a cigarette and loitered about.
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