It could mean but one thing.
A mist swept before his eyes, while his head swam.

Was it only last night that he had worshiped the Angel in a delirium of happiness?
And now, what?
Wessner, released from a turn at the saw, walked to the flower bed, and tearing up a handful of rare ferns by the roots, started toward Freckles.

His intention was obvious.

Black Jack stopped him, with an oath.
"You see here, Dutchy," he bawled, "mebby you think you'll wash his face with that, but you won't.

A contract's a contract.