Your aunt liked the pheasant. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. " "You'd better hold your peace, my lad," observed Jonathan, in a menacing tone. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. In his condition the boy apparently had been as safe as in the lock-up. She responded at once, rapping him on the knuckles with her fan. So dreadful were these shouts as to produce an effect upon the hardened feelings of Jonathan, who shrank out of sight. She heard it open, but as she felt unable to look round in a careless manner she pretended not to hear it. White men and natives dealt conveniently at Copeley's. If he wished, he could even take this inheritance from her. "What's the matter, father!" continued the new-comer, addressing Wood.
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