So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought.
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