"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. But he held the smile until she turned away from the curtain. She caught at the idea. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. "By all means," returned Wood; "don't delay an instant.
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