It was out of the question.

But they would let him bark one's sanity away outside one's window.

They were strangely consistent in their lack of imaginative sympathy.

I didn't insist but simply led the way back to the parlour, hoping that no wayfarer would happen along the lane for the next hour or so to disturb the dog's composure.
Mrs.Fyne seated immovable before the table charged with plates, cups, jugs, a cold teapot, crumbs, and the general litter of the entertainment turned her head towards us.
"You see, Mr.Marlow," she said in an unexpectedly confidential tone: "they are so utterly unsuited for each other." At the moment I did not know how to apply this remark.

I thought at first of Fyne and the dog.