" "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. Why doesn’t she marry? Plenty of money under her father’s will. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. Don't be afraid—I won't hurt you. But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her.
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