Wood, carving for his friends, and pledging the carpenter, he had his hands full. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. He was by no means certain that she would not in fact attempt to blow off his head as she had threatened. His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be.
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