"Why didn't you come out when I called you, you young dog?" cried Quilt in a savage tone. Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other. But machinery will never approach the hand. The smell that emanated from the opening was abominable. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. "The key," replied the widow. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest.
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