‘Parbleu, that pig, he will ruin all. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood.
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