"By all means," rejoined Quilt. He's passed through some rough mental torture. My father died a year ago, by the way. It was not simply that all the rooms were rearranged and everybody dressed in unusual fashions, and all the routines of life abolished and put away: people’s tempers and emotions also seemed strangely disturbed and shifted about. You want industry—you want steadiness. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment.
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