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. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. I’ll give you grandpére!’ ‘But milor’—’ ‘Pardon!’ No longer master of his actions, the general lurched forward, waving his cane. . He looked at her, hurt. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. "She was mine before you ever saw her.
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