Wood scarcely knew where he was. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. There was going to be no quarter between these two. But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried. The air was crisp and dry. It was possible that his first impressions had not been correct. But it is not your name. People of your sort—I don’t want the instincts to—to rush our situation. He dressed rather after the fashion of the West End than the City, and affected a cultured urbanity that somehow disconcerted and always annoyed Ann Veronica’s father extremely.
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