He put it carefully aside, resolved to defer the attempt till night. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. 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. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. Miss Miniver learned of her flight and got her address from the Widgetts. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. . But send me word.
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