'One way or another I will leave the house.' 'Where are you going ?' 'To my sister's.' His hand on the door, Widdowson stood as if determined in opposition.
But her will was stronger than his.

Only by homicide can a man maintain his dignity in a situation of this kind; Widdowson could not kill his wife, and every moment that he stood there made him more ridiculous, more contemptible.
He turned back into the hall and reached his hat.

Whilst he was doing so Monica opened the door.

Heavy rain was falling, but she paid no heed to it.

In a moment Widdowson hastened after her, careless, he too, of the descending floods.