What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. Them young prigs is all alike. He looked no longer at his wife. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. “Perhaps your engagements are made for you. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. ” She watched his face as he traced his way through these speculative thickets. I can’t help it. ” He frowned. But though she lied about pretty much everything else, she didn’t lie about that. “How old are you?” “Sixteen.
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