"Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. He scratched his upper lip reflectively. "From Mr. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. "You're mistaken, Winny. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance.
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