“I was sick of the make-believe. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. He's got the gift of the gab. The stage manager came out from the wings, and taking her hand led her off. But his own situation was too perilous to admit of his rendering any assistance to the ill-fated waterman. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for nambypamby creatures. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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