“Mistakes!” he almost shouted at her. “I have been lying here, looking round the room at all my possessions and realising for the first time what they mean to me. I have been looking out of the window at the trees, remembering how I climbed them as a child, listening to the cluck of the pheasants, knowing that they are all part of my memories of Wynch, of my childhood and of the days when I was so happy here before I went to London. How could I have wanted any other sort of life?”
He looked at Tina despairingly and added,
“Sometimes I think that there must be a streak of insanity in the family and that I have inherited it.”
There was so much feeling in his voice that Tina feared his temperature might rise again.
“Don’t worry about it now,” she said soothingly, “it will not seem so frig
