‘Here we go again. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it. His fatigue was tacitly understood within the family; it was a phenomenon which everyone acknowledged as related to the trades. I’ll kill you, Sheila, and I’ll kill her too. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable.
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