In the middle there was a gate. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. Having seen every precaution taken to ensure his safe custody, he departed, muttering to himself, "I shall yet live to see him hanged—I shall live to see him hanged. "If you thought that, why did you give me this job?"—his voice faint and thick. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency.
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