"I'll tear his eyes out!" She flew up-stairs to her own room, and left the burden of the explanation to Mela, who did it justice.
Beaton found himself, he did not know how, in his studio, reeking with perspiration and breathless.

He must almost have run.

He struck a match with a shaking hand, and looked at his face in the glass.

He expected to see the bleeding marks of her nails on his cheeks, but he could see nothing.

He grovelled inwardly; it was all so low and coarse and vulgar; it was all so just and apt to his deserts.
There was a pistol among the dusty bric-a-brac on the mantel which he had kept loaded to fire at a cat in the area.