Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. She felt his crotch through his jeans. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me.
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