In this state, he contrived to get the poor black's hand into his mouth, and nearly bit off one of his fingers before the sufferer could be rescued. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. Though not much passed the middle term of life, he seemed prematurely stricken with old age. The afternoon had passed now into twilight. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
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