At last he took up his thoughts again: “I wonder if, some day, one won’t need to rebel against customs and laws? If this discord will have gone? Some day, perhaps—who knows?—the old won’t coddle and hamper the young, and the young won’t need to fly in the faces of the old. "Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. Jackson smiled and put on the air of a man who knows more than he cares to tell. She did not resist him, she could not.
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