“No reason. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. “Very good,” he said. "I cannot climb the boat. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. Wood, meanwhile, had summoned his men-servants, and having armed them with such weapons as could be found, they proceeded to the garden, where the first object they encountered was Thames Darrell, extended on the ground, and weltering in his blood. They all balk because there aren't any petticoats. .
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