"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Not far from the entrance, on the left, was a sort of screen, or partition-wall, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, formed of thick oaken planks riveted together by iron bolts, and studded with broad-headed nails. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. He was no longer in military uniform, and it was evident from his suit of brown brocade that he had been disturbed while preparing for an evening engagement. Taber and no one comment upon it.
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