Martin's first impulse was to turn abruptly back
again and go up to his room. He could not speak to that fellow now,
he could not! He half turned. Then something stopped him:
"Halloo!" he said. "Where's father?"
"Don't know," said Thurston, sucking the words through his teeth.
"I've been wanting him too."
"Well, as he isn't here--" said Martin fiercely.
"No use me waiting? Quite so. All the same I'm going to wait."
The two figures were strangely contrasted, Martin red-brown with
health, thick and square, Thurston pale with a spotted complexion,
dim and watery eyes, legs and arms like sticks, his black clothes
shabby and his boots dusty.
Nevertheless at that moment it was Thurston who had the power. He
moved forward from the window. "Makes you fair sick to see me
anywhere about the 'ouse, doesn't it? Oh, I know . . . You can't kid
me. I've seen from the first. You fair loathe the sight of me."
"That's nothing to do with it," said Martin uneasily. "Whether we
like one another or not, there's no need to discuss it."
"Oh, isn't there?" said Thurston, coming a little closer so that he
was standing now directly under the light of the candle.
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