“I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. Even if he were an old friend, you couldn't afford to do it. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. It doesn't look bad, does it?" "Mercy, no! That wasn't the thought. She was silent. She thought of her aunt and that purse that was dropped on the table, and of many troublesome and ill-requited kindnesses; she thought of the help of the Widgetts, of Teddy’s admiration; she thought, with a new-born charity, of her father, of Manning’s conscientious unselfishness, of Miss Miniver’s devotion. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. Amongst others, a person near the door, roused by the shriek, observed a man make his exit with the utmost precipitation. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled.
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