“Where’s my newspaper?” cried the old man, angrily. “I never get my newspaper to the time. Do you hear, I want my newspaper. If you can’t have me properly attended to by that cat of a girl, I declare I’ll go. Do you hear? I’ll go. I’m looking out now for a plot of land to build a house where I can be in peace and properly attended to. Do you hear? I want my newspaper—‘The Times.’”
“There it is, dear,” said Mrs Mullion, upon whom this storm did not seem to have the slightest effect, “you are sitting upon it.”
“Then why, in the name of Buddha, was the paper put in my chair? A table’s the place for a paper. Where’s Madge?”
“Gone out for a walk, dear.”
“She’s always gone for a walk. I wish to good—”
Rustle—rustle—rustle of the paper.
”—To goodness I had nev—”
Rustle—rustle—rustle—
”—Had never come to this con—”
Rustle—rustle—rustle. Bang in the middle and double up.