He was quite pale now, and his eyes looked so fierce that I thought he would do my father an injury.

He spoke in a voice which did not seem like his own, it was so strong and deep.
"Sir!" he roared out.

I suppose, if I was a writer, which, thank God, I am not--I have no need to follow a menial occupation--I would call it "thundered." "Thundered" is a longer word than "roared," and would, of course, help to gain the penny which a writer gets for a line.

Father got pale too, and stood quite still.

Rupert looked at him steadily for quite half a minute--it seemed longer at the time--and suddenly smiled and said, as he sat down again: "Sorry.