A man who's been wounded in the head, and isn't a teetotaller, is done for.

The girl's no use--regular pleasure-loving type!" Thyme flushed crimson, and, seeing that flood of colour in his niece's face, Hilary bit his lips.
"The only things worth considering are the children.

There's this baby-well, as I said, the important thing is that the mother should be able to look after it properly.

Get hold of that, and let the other facts go hang." "Forgive me, but my difficulty is to isolate this question of the baby's health from all the other circumstances of the case." Martin grinned.
"And you'll make that an excuse, I'm certain, for doing nothing." Thyme slipped her hand into Hilary's.
"You are a brute, Martin," she-murmured.
The young man turned on her a look that said: 'It's no use calling me a brute; I'm proud of being one.

Besides, you know you don't dislike it.' "It's better to be a brute than an amateur," he said.
Thyme, pressing close to Hilary, as though he needed her protection, cried out: "Martin, you really are a Goth!" Hilary was still smiling, but his face quivered.
"Not at all," he said.