“They never seem so at first!” he said. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. “What a gloomy person you are!” she murmured. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. Whenever you grow impatient with her, remember the folly of her father.
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