"The poor boy must be in his room," said Mr. Mortimer.
"Under the bed, if you ask me," said Jane, blowing on the barrel of her g*n and polishing it with the side of her hand. " He's all right! Leave him alone, and the housemaid will sweep him up in the morning."
"Oh, he can't be!" cried Billie, revolted.
A girl of high spirit, it seemed to her repellent that the man she was engaged to marry should be displaying such a craven spirit. At that moment she despised and hated Bream Mortimer. I think she was wrong, mind you. It is not my place to criticise the little group of people whose simple annals I am relating—my position is merely that of a reporter—: but personally I think highly of Bream's sturdy common-sense. If somebody loosed off an elephant g*n at me in a dark corridor
