The crimson in her
cheeks was deeper. It was a vandal hand that had wrecked the little
shrine of her childhood. His indignation against Thelismer Thornton
blazed higher.
But Dennis Kavanagh knew how to be even more brutal, for that was Dennis
Kavanagh's style of attack. He came out upon the porch, a broad, stocky
chunk of a man, with eyebrows sticking up like the horns on a snail, and
the eyes beneath them keen with humor of the grim and pitiless sort.
"And how do you do to-day, Harlan Thornton?" he asked. "And how is that
old gorilla of a grandfather of yours? Though you needn't tell me, for I
don't want to know--not unless you can lighten me up a bit by telling me
that he's enjoying his last sickness. But right now while I think of it,
I have something to say to you, young Thornton, sir."
The young man stared hard at him. It was an unwonted tone for Kavanagh
to employ. Clare's father, till now, had not included Harlan in his feud
with the grandfather. He had always treated him with a brusqueness that
had a sort of good-humor beneath it.
Pages:
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121