Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. The last observation, however, caught the attention of the carpenter's wife. He hesitated. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. By the time she was done, the bodies in the bathtub were gathering flies. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment.
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