Neither of them joined in the applause which followed upon her exit. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. On his return to London, he found that applications had been made from a somewhat doubtful quarter by two individuals, for the posts of subordinate officers in his troop. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. ‘Charvill?’ uttered Roding frowningly. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort.
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