He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. London Bridge had suffered a degree less than most places. "Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. 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. " Animated by this trifling success, he proceeded with fresh ardour, and the rapidity of his progress was proclaimed by the heap of bricks, stones, and mortar which before long covered the floor.
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