I spoke a thought aloud. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. "No," answered Jack, approaching her, "though, if I had done so, he would have merited his fate. You may have something to conceal, you may not. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed.
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