| Title | The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists |
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| Page | 88 |
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| Chapter | -- |
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| Text |
If it were not for them! Owen's imagination ran riot. First he would seize him by the collar with his left hand, dig his knuckles into his throat, force him up against the wall and then, with his right fist, smash! smash! smash! until Hunter's face was all cut and covered with blood. But then, what about those at home? Was it not braver and more manly to endure in silence? Owen leaned against the wall, white-faced, panting and exhausted. Downstairs, Misery was still going to and fro in the house and walking up and down in it. Presently he stopped to look at Sawkins' work. This man was painting the woodwork of the back staircase. Although the old paintwork here was very dirty and greasy, Misery had given orders that it was not to be cleaned before being painted. |
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