“How old are you?” “Sixteen. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. Take my child to—it is—oh God!—I am sinking—take it—take it!" "Where?" shouted Wood. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. Hitherto you’ve seen only my easy, kindly side. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding.
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