Peddle's injured air deepened almost into resentment. "Where the devil !" Never had Mr. Marmaduke, or his father, the Canon, used such language. He drew himself up. "I have given orders, sir, for the uniform suit you wore yesterday to be sent to the cleaners." "Oh, hell!" said Doggie. And Peddle, unaccustomed to the vernacular of the British Army, paled with horror. "Oh, hell!" said Doggie.
He dipped his shaving-brush into the hot water. Then he threw it, anyhow, across the room. Instead of shaving, he would be gloating over the idea of cutting that old fool, Peddle's, throat, and therefore would slash his own face to bits. Things, however, were not done at lightning speed in the Deanery of Durdlebury.
Marmaduke had learned in the army, the lower sank the army in Peddle's estimation. To sell Denby Hall over his head! Why, the place and all about it was his! So deeply are squatters' rights implanted in the human instinct. Doggie marched along the familiar high road, strangely exhilarated. What was to be his future he neither knew nor cared. At any rate, it would not lie in Durdlebury.