He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. “You had no right—” panted Ann Veronica.
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