Ennison slightly——” There was a dead silence in the little room. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “Or I know another one who wears cologne. "I'll tote the odiousness outside. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. "All my life I've dreamed of something like this," he said, divertingly, with a gesture which included the yacht. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. He patted the hand on his sleeve. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger.
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