You're a queer lad. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. Brendon,” she said, “if I could ask for advice, or borrow money from any one, I would from you—there! But I cannot. Upon reading the name, the doctor's eyebrows went up. 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 has married some one he could not approve of, and gone right away.
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