"Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. But, bloodan'-'ouns! man, if ould Nick himself were to hit me a blow, I'd be afther givin' him another. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you.
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