Fyne even pushed his way into a decaying shed half-buried in dew- soaked vegetation.

He struck matches, several of them too, as if to make absolutely sure that the vanished girl-friend of his wife was not hiding there.

The short flares illuminated his grave, immovable countenance while I let myself go completely and laughed in peals.
I asked him if he really and truly supposed that any sane girl would go and hide in that shed; and if so why?
Disdainful of my mirth he merely muttered his basso-profundo thankfulness that we had not found her anywhere about there.

Having grown extremely sensitive (an effect of irritation) to the tonalities, I may say, of this affair, I felt that it was only an imperfect, reserved, thankfulness, with one eye still on the possibilities of the several ponds in the neighbourhood.

And I remember I snorted, I positively snorted, at that poor Fyne.
What really jarred upon me was the rate of his walking.