"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ‘Nothing would do for her but to come here,’ grumbled Hilary, wiping his heated brow with a pocket handkerchief dragged from his immaculate white uniform breeches. The small predator subconsciously acknowledged the larger one. For Manning it would be a more temperate love altogether. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Let me keep him. "I can't say I do," replied Wood.
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