His face darkened. "Close the court, Mr. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. I'd like to shake you until your bones rattled; but the bones of a Roundhead wouldn't rattle to any purpose. Play fair with her. Can't I make you understand? Perhaps it sounds cruel to you; but we women often have to be cruel defensively. And what on earth do you want to darken your eyebrows and use so much make-up for at your age? You’re exactly twenty-three, and you’re got up as much as a woman of forty-five. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t.
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