The uncle, his hands and feet acting
mechanically, kept his blue eyes fixed on the highroad into whose traffic
the car was insinuating its way. Berry felt curiously as if he were
sitting beside an older development of himself. His mind went back to his
mother. She had been twenty years older than this brother of hers whom
she had loved so dearly. 'He was one of the most affectionate little
lads, and such a curly head! I could never have believed he would grow
into the great, coarse bully he is--for he's nothing else. My father made
a god of him--well, it's a good thing his father is dead. He got in with
that sporting gang, that's what did it. Things were made too easy for
him, and so he thought of no one but himself, and this is the result.'
Not that 'Joky' Sutton was so very black a sheep. He had lived idly till
he was eighteen, then had suddenly married a young, beautiful girl with
clear brows and dark grey eyes, a factory girl. Having taken her to live
with his parents he, lover of dogs and pigeons, went on to the staff
of a sporting paper. But his wife was without uplift or warmth. Though
they made money enough, their house was dark and cold and uninviting.
He had two or three dogs, and the whole attic was turned into a great
pigeon-house. He and his wife lived together roughly, with no warmth, no
refinement, no touch of beauty anywhere, except that she was beautiful.
He was a blustering, impetuous man, she was rather cold in her soul, did
not care about anything very much, was rather capable and close with
money.
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