The old man gazed fixedly at his wife as if he saw nobody else, and as if he were repeating the words to which the bony fingers beat time.

He said, in a cold, dry voice, still beating time, "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" "I'm sure, Boniface, I know that, if any body does," said his wife, pettishly, and in a half-whimpering voice.

"I think we've all learned that." "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" he said, beating with the bony fingers.
"Really, Boniface," said his wife, with an air of offended propriety, "I see no occasion for such pointed allusions to our misfortunes.

It is certainly in very bad taste." "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" persisted her husband, still gazing at her, and still beating time with the white bony fingers.
Mrs.Newt's whimpering broadened into crying.

She sat weeping and wiping her eyes, in the way which used to draw down a storm from her husband.
There was no storm now.