He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. " With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. “I wonder,” he said, “is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered. Poor young lady! She trembled too, and was unable to give her evidence.
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