"What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness. He brought home a few waverers to talk to them where they had no chance of getting away. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. Ruth loved him. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Mere formality.
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