"You are talking tomfool nonsense," he said, scowling.

"The property isn't mine; it's my wife's." "Sylvia never crossed you in anything.

She'd give it up fast enough if she got it through her head how downright miserable it was making you," returned the lawyer, maliciously.

Then Sidney relented.

There was something pathetic, even tragic, about Henry Whitman's sheer inability to enjoy as he might once have done the good things of life, and his desperate clutch of them in flat contradiction to his words.