He crossed the road; and lurching forward against the torrential rain, he stopped when he reached the pigsty. A fantastic dread lest he should find the same fire-lit glow in Gerda’s parlour⁠—with Bob Weevil installed there, like a maggot in an apple⁠—made him reluctant so much as to glance at his own house. Was Christie, too, sitting by her fire, acting the devoted daughter to Mr. Malakite?

Three fires and three women⁠—and Mr. Wolf Solent leaning against the pigsty!

The rain now began to find his skin. A little trickle of ice-cold drops descended between his coat-collar and his neck.