"Is it man's, woman's, or child's voice?"
"I can't tell, I can't make up my mind."
"Nor I."
"Have you heard it often?"
"Yes, since I returned from Westgate. There are never any words that I can distinguish. What a voice!"
He spat into the fire.
"Forgive me," he said, throwing himself down in a chair. "It turns my stomach—literally."
"And mine," said the Father, truly.
"The worst of it is," continued Guildea, with a high, nervous accent, "that there's no brain with it, none at all—only the cunning of idiotcy."
The Father started at this exact expression of his own conviction by another.