That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. At that, the girl jumped up.
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