His wife and daughter twisted him round their little fingers and then hunted cover when he found out what they had done.
He went out again to the main entrance and smoked himself headachy.

He hated London.

He had always hated it in theory, now he hated it in fact.

He hated tea, buttered muffins, marmalade, jam, toast, cricket, box hedges three hundred years old, ruins, and the checkless baggage system, the wet blankets called newspapers.

All the racial hatred of his forebears (Tipperary born) surged hot and wrathful in his veins.
At the drop of a hat he would have gone to war, individually, with all England.