In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He sat down beside her just as the room became darker. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. Who’s for a rubber of whist?” Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. I believe that his recovery was considered almost miraculous.
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