All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. Determined, however, to conquer the feeling as soon as possible, Wood had given orders to have the evening meal served there; but, notwithstanding all his good resolutions upon his first entrance, he had much ado to maintain his self-command. The momentary alarm over, he threw a piece of-wash leather over a bureau, so as to deaden the sound, and instantly broke it open with a small crowbar. The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. "There's nothing in his clothes. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. The roofs and gables of many of the houses had been torn off. The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers.
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