" "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair. "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. “I am convinced you haven’t thought this out,” he went on. I wonder. How would it serve Nicholas to keep the truth from his daughter? A tiny thread of disquiet troubled him. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness.
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