There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. “No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood.
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