His favorite newspaper was the Times, which he began at breakfast in the morning often with manifest irritation, and carried off to finish in the train, leaving no other paper at home. Charvill’s fury was burning out. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. As he crossed this chamber, his foot struck against something on the floor, which nearly threw him down, and stooping to examine the object, he found it was a key. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. ” “How dull you are,” the lady remarked.
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