From his tone you would have thought he was living surrounded by conjurers, who spirited away things from him merely to irritate him.
“Could you have left it in the garden?” my aunt would suggest.
“What should I want to leave it in the garden for? I don’t want a paper in the garden; I want the paper in the train with me.”
“You haven’t put it in your pocket?”
“God bless the woman! Do you think I should be standing here at five minutes to nine looking for it if I had it in my pocket all the while? Do you think I’m a fool?”
Here somebody would explain, “What’s this?” and hand him from somewhere a paper neatly folded.
“I do wish people would leave my things alone,” he would growl, snatching at it savagely.
He would open his bag to put it in, and then glancing at it, he would pause, speechless with sense of injury.
“What’s the matter?” aunt would ask.
“The day before yesterday’s!” he would answer, too hurt even to shout, throwing the paper down upon the table.