Perhaps never in his life⁠—not even when he had to appear before that College Board in London to be reprimanded for his crazy malice-dance⁠—had he felt so humiliated.

“I’m sorry, Christie!” he blurted out. “It was wrong of me. I did it somehow⁠ ⁠… I don’t know!⁠ ⁠… without meaning to.” He made a feeble movement towards her, where she stood by the edge of the table, her chin raised high, her eyes literally flashing, the curved lines of her lips much redder than usual! He had never seen her look so beautiful. But her anger frightened and paralyzed him.

“I only read a word or two, Chris⁠ ⁠… just one sentence⁠ ⁠… that’s all.”

She swept the table with her doomsday-trumpet. Backwards and forwards she swung it, as if drawing a furrow in windy sand; and under its stroke the little volume of Hydriotaphia went whirling to the floor, where it lay face-downwards at Wolf’s feet.