"What for?" demanded Wood. “Your mother was a Gypsy. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. “I’ve fallen in love. He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him. Nasty, damp passages. ” He beamed over the effect of this and shook hands with effusion, and Lady Palsworthy suddenly appeared as his confederate and disentangled the vicar’s aunt.
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