The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. I’m too young 117 for this to sound right. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in.
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