“I see.”
Devizes considered the implications of that “I see.” “Not that I ran away from any definite scrape that I knew of at Sheringham,” he said very carefully.
“What was my mother like in those days?”
“A sort of subdued fierceness. A flushed warm face. She was pretty, you know, and very upright in her carriage. And she had a swift decision beneath her stiffness. Her wishes would suddenly crystallize out, and after that there was no bending her.”
“I know.”
“I suppose you do.”
“She wore glasses then?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Was she fresh then? Was she happy?”
“A little too fierce to be happy.”