There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. ‘How she pouted, and tried to make out that she had been imposed upon. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. He thrust out a rhetorical hand.
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