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strangely balmy February evening was rudely disturbed by the sound of doors slamming and heavy tramping overhead. Mrs. Henshawe winced, a look of apprehension and helplessness, a tortured expression, came over her face. She turned sharply to her husband, who was resting peacefully in one of their old, deep chairs, over by the muffled light. “There they are, those animals!”
He sat up. “They have just come back from church,” he said in a troubled voice.
“Why should I have to know when they come back from church? Why should I have the details of their stupid, messy existence thrust upon me all day long, and half the night?” she broke out bitterly. Her features became tense, as from an attack of pain, and I realised how unable she was to bear things.
“We are unfortunate in the people who live over us,” Oswald explained. “They annoy us a great deal. These new houses are poorly built, and every sound carries.”
