"I'll wash up; don't you bother to come downstairs," she said cheerfully.
Bunting began to walk up and down the room.

His wife gave him a furtive glance; she wondered what he was thinking about.
"Didn't you get a paper ?" she said at last.
"Yes, of course I did," he answered hastily.

"But I've put it away.
I thought you'd rather not look at it, as you're that nervous." Again she glanced at him quickly, furtively, but he seemed just as usual--he evidently meant just what he said and no more.
"I thought they was shouting something in the street--I mean just before I was took bad." It was now Bunting's turn to stare at his wife quickly and rather furtively.

He had felt sure that her sudden attack of queerness, of hysterics--call it what you might--had been due to the shouting outside.

She was not the only woman in London who had got the Avenger murders on her nerves.