" "It shall be, Sir," replied Ireton, bowing. She entered the last room, his bedroom. " "Somebody coming?" "Yes. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. In his way he was critical. "I declare I'm all in a cold sweat.
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