Gold-handled, too. "See the devil!—not I," cried Wood impatiently. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say.
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