“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. The less said, therefore, on this point the better; because, as nothing is to be gained by it, it would only be trouble thrown away. “We won’t. He buys his own clothes, chooses his own company, makes his own way of living. She must get to the vestry. Together they made their painful way to the door, not even checking, in the effort this cost both, on what Gosse might be doing.
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