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Updated: May 9, 2025
Not by any means pleased by suggestions so unpleasant, Arthur took his way downstairs, determined to renew the coffin-stool question with his host. He found Angela waiting for him in the hall, and making friends with Aleck. "Will you come in and see my father for a minute before we go out?" she said.
I was in hopes you had thought no more of it. I can NOT part with it so there!" "Now, look here, Marty," said the barber, sitting down on the coffin-stool table. "How much do you get for making these spars?" "Hush father's up-stairs awake, and he don't know that I am doing his work." "Well, now tell me," said the man, more softly. "How much do you get?"
However, mind what I ask." "She's not going to get him through me." Percombe had retired as far as the door; he came back, planted his cane on the coffin-stool, and looked her in the face. "Marty South," he said, with deliberate emphasis, "YOU'VE GOT A LOVER YOURSELF, and that's why you won't let it go!"
Beside her, in case she might require more light, a brass candlestick stood on a little round table, curiously formed of an old coffin-stool, with a deal top nailed on, the white surface of the latter contrasting oddly with the black carved oak of the substructure.
With a preoccupied countenance, and with tears in her eyes, she got a pair of scissors, and began mercilessly cutting off the long locks of her hair, arranging and tying them with their points all one way, as the barber had directed. Upon the pale scrubbed deal of the coffin-stool table they stretched like waving and ropy weeds over the washed gravel-bed of a clear stream.
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