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“It was,” she admitted. " Amazed at the boy's assurance, Wood left off boxing his ears for a moment, and, looking at him steadfastly, said in a grave tone, "Jack, Jack, you'll come to be hanged!" "Better be hanged than hen-pecked," retorted the lad with a malicious grin. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand.
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