She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. "I'm glad to find I'm right. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. She bolted upright as she heard footsteps rumble towards the door, cursing UPS for being so damn persistent in such foul weather. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like.
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