I die happy—quite happy in beholding you. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. Women and men had always flocked to him, covetous of his knowledge, his riches, and if all else failed, his carnal expertise. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. It fits your style. —'How so?' says I.
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