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‘That is the man who tries to kill me, but he wounded instead my servant. "Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. But whenever the storm grew dangerous, either McClintock or Spurlock broke into saving laughter. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. It hit her just above the knee. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir.
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