"Weep on, reprobate," cried the carpenter, a little softened. “Much as I hate rows, I’ve either got to make a stand or give in altogether. Swiftly he looked back to Melusine and found she had whisked to the window, dragging a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve and hastily blowing her nose. Mercifully, the Peters had moved to Rhode Island about six months after the tragedy. I’ve told them all that was necessary, but I— wanted to ask your pardon—for having made myself a nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms—and to thank you—the doctor says you bound up my wound—or I should have bled to death. Still, I suppose Melusine can always sell the house.
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