He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. “What are you doing?” “Nothing. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. He has helped me out of scrapes though, no end of times.
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