Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. ‘Point it at me. ’ ‘That is what you think? Let us try!’ ‘Don’t be idiotic!’ She was backing from him, reaching through one of the slits she had carefully manufactured in her petticoat. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively.
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