His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. "Put down your burthen, monster!" shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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