Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. We are nuns. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man.
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