“That’s God’s own truth you’ve a-heerd, Josh Beard,” echoed the triumphant Mr. Manley. “ ’Tisn’t safe for that poor man to call his own daughter daughter, in the light o’ what folks, as knows, do report. If I didn’t respect any real gentleman”⁠—and to Wolf’s consternation the gin-bemused stare of the farmer was turned upon himself⁠—“and if I weren’t churchwarden and hadn’t voted Conservative for nigh thirty years, I would show this here stone-chipper the kind of gallimaufry these educated gents will cook for theyselves, afore they’re done!”

Wolf’s wits, moving now, in spite of the fumes of smoke and alcohol, with restored clarity, achieved a momentous orientation of many obscure matters. He recalled certain complicated hints and hesitations of Selena Gault. He recalled the reckless and embittered gaiety of his mother. With a shaky hand he finished his last glass and laid it down on the counter. Then he looked across the room at the two farmers.