Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. She rapped again, louder. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. "Speak out—don't be alarmed," said Wood, in a kind and encouraging tone. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme.
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