“That’s HIM,” said Ann Veronica, in sound, idiomatic English. And there arose too, a background of shouts. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse. Never really thought about Him—people don’t.
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