Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse. Ann Veronica decided that “hoydenish ragger” was the only phrase to express her. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. She has never done a really ignoble thing that I know of— never. “You could tell me but you’d have to kill me?” He asked with a sardonic grin on his face. That's well. “Very good,” he said.
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