Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. His name was Peter. He was a wonderful little creature with a perfect tiny face, mottled pink cheeks, and eyes brighter than May. “Show me around you house, John. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. She let go of him and stood up, straightening herself. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. Two-and-twenty! I can’t imagine what your parents can be thinking about to let you get into these scrapes. The image did not move.
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