"Where didst thou get it?"
No answer.
Threateningly, in crescendo:
"Where didst thou get it?"
"Found it!"
"Where? Say thou where, at once!"
There was a loud knocking at the door. Reb Monash remained in ignorance but a few seconds longer. A deputation poured into the kitchen. It consisted of two or three women, an old man gabbling indignantly, the father of Mottele, the mother of Mottele, and in her arms, swathed in a shawl, the soaked, screaming Mottele himself.
"It is well!" said Reb Monash shortly. "It is well!" he said quietly and grimly. "You may go! We shall be happy together, Feivel and I!" he added with acid humour.
Philip was conscious of the strained white face of his mother staring from the candle-lit gloom of the scullery. He didn't mind these things himself so fearfully much ... but somehow she never seemed able to get used to them ... ah well, he'd had his whack ... the sooner it was over!