“Is he mad?” Mr. Rendall appealed to his wife, but she was too flabbergasted to utter a sound. “Are you mad?”
“No,” said Wynne. He knew he must speak. His whole being called on him to speak, and yet, try as he would, the words refused to come. Oh, why, why wasn’t Uncle Clem present to say the things he could not express? If he failed to establish his position there and then the chance would be gone for ever.
“You had better speak,” said his father, “better explain the meaning of this—and explain quick.” The last part of the sentence rose to a shout.
“I did it—I did it because you are all wrong—that’s why—all wrong.”
“Wrong! What about?”
“Oh, everything. It’s—y-you can see, now, you were wr-wrong—c-can’t you? Now that I’ve—oh, you were so wrong—”
“There won’t be much wrong with what I intend doing to you, my boy.”
A hand fell heavily on his shoulder, but he did not wince.
“Won’t make any difference.”
“We’ll see about that.”