’ Pottiswick sucked at his teeth through the gaps. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. Not up here, I think. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. You’re all such good cooks. "Back!" he cried fiercely. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. She’d have thrown this thing if you hadn’t stopped her. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion.
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