CHAPTER VIII. I suppose most of our daughters would marry organ-grinders if they had a chance—at that age. Wood, however, made known his presence to the individual by laying his hand upon his shoulder. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. Then she was turning, ignoring the muttered cursing and the rattling that immediately ensued at the door. "I was afraid it would be so. 275 “Yes!” She answered, feeling joy and fear well in her chest. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. 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.
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