‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. He’ll do. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She was civil, but she was obviously impatient to know his errand. If he ran less risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance of being washed off, or stifled. Hoped you'd not be retaken.
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