Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. You owe what I have done for you, to him, not to me. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Wood could stand it no longer. ‘Oh, famous. The Jew swallowed it at a draught. I will light the stove, and there shall be some coffee presently. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock.
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