‘He just came. David Courtlaw. Anna was more difficult. Kneebone invariably takes part with me, when any trifling misunderstanding arises between us. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. He did not explain what had happened to her. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her. "God forgive me for using such a word!" he cried, in a troubled tone; "if I hadn't yielded to my wife's silly request, this wouldn't have happened!" CHAPTER VII.
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