She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face. Then a hansom drove up, and his heart gave a great leap. It was the only way to make the monthly bills. Scissors with which to cut her hair, just in case. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. Age is set, impervious to innovations. It had been a trying day.
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