“Well?” “I don’t care a rap for all these things. ’ She was about to develop this theme, when Jack’s gaze became fixed, and his expression changed. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. There were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set him a-tremble. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain.
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