" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. He was all alone, too. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. They began the evening like usual, driving down highways and byways. O'Higgins wandered into this street and that, studying the signs and resenting the Britisher's wariness in using too much tin and paint. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived midway, something obstructed his further progress. She rapped on Michelle’s door loudly. "I'll make myself intelligible before I've done," rejoined Wild. The late afternoon, en effet.
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