Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. "Take a drop of brandy before we start, watchman," said Wood, pouring out a glass of spirit, and presenting it to Terence, who smacked his lips as he disposed of it. I tried it myself, Sir. But it’s only now I’m able to do it. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. The daughters, he had hoped, would be their mother’s care.
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