Sir John saw it, and was flattered. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. CHAPTER XXVIII. I know how bad it feels.
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