Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. “There are a good many Whites in London. " This readiness to surrender the coat to her surprised Ruth.
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