‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. Part 4 MY DEAR VEE, he wrote. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. She seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom. That knot also would be cut. Wood. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms.
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