She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. "How shall I get to you?" "My yacht is in the river. "Did I hear you …" began McClintock. For on reaching the second floor, a swishing sound came to Gerald’s ears, as of someone moving about. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft.
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