Whilst she was shedding quiet tears on her pillow, he was raging with furious passion to his son.

Over and over again did he comment on every word of the letter, sometimes with keen irony, sometimes with a burst of rage, until Owen endeavoured to suggest pursuit.
'Go after her! the ungrateful, disobedient, good-for-nothing hussey! No, not if she were stopping a mile off instead of whirling away in her grand coach and four nobody knows where.

Let her go, the impertinent baggage! "Father 'ont consent! father was very cross! father had better let us marry! he will be sorry when he sees how grand and happy I am! father called me bad names!" I wish I had called her worse! she deserves every name that was ever written!' 'But, perhaps,' suggests Owen, 'she will be happy, and Howel will be steady.' 'Steady! hold your tongue and don't be a fool! Make a drunkard steady! make a bad son steady! make a gambler steady! make a horse-racer steady! make--make--make--hold your tongue, sir: don't say a word for the ungrateful girl--never mention her name to me again--I never wish to see her face more as long as I live--I--I--I--' Mr Prothero's passion choked his words.

Could Netta have suddenly returned and seen her father shaking with suppressed grief, his face crimson with rage, and his hands and teeth clenched, and her mother pale and weeping on her bed, she would, I think, have paused longer before she caused them this great grief.
Mr Prothero returned to his wife before his passion was calmed.

He found her sitting up in bed wringing her hands, and crying as if her heart would break.
'Now, mother, there's no good in this,' began the farmer.