Then the little old man fidgeted and found a paper.
"Did you write this letter ?" he snapped, thrusting what Paul recognised as his own notepaper in front of him.
"Yes," he answered.
At that moment he was occupied in two ways: first, in feeling guilty for telling a lie, since William had composed the letter; second, in wondering why his letter seemed so strange and different, in the fat, red hand of the man, from what it had been when it lay on the kitchen table.

It was like part of himself, gone astray.

He resented the way the man held it.
"Where did you learn to write ?" said the old man crossly.
Paul merely looked at him shamedly, and did not answer.
"He IS a bad writer," put in Mrs.Morel apologetically.

Then she pushed up her veil.

Paul hated her for not being prouder with this common little man, and he loved her face clear of the veil.
"And you say you know French ?" inquired the little man, still sharply.
"Yes," said Paul.
"What school did you go to ?" "The Board-school." "And did you learn it there ?" "No--I--" The boy went crimson and got no farther.
"His godfather gave him lessons," said Mrs.Morel, half pleading and rather distant.
Mr.Jordan hesitated.