He spoke in quick nervous sentences. Annabel thought, and thought again. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. " "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair.
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