" "Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. ‘Didn’t mean to say that. Spare him!—pity me!" With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house. But it was not so ordered. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way.
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