ied angrily that he was afraid of any beastly dog, and then his sudden wincing confession that he did mind--that he minded horribly--not because he was afraid of being bitten--Edward explained this point very carefully--but because the dog made such a beastly row, and because Edward dreamed of him at night, only in his dreams, Pellico's dog was rather larger than Pellico himself, and the lane was a cul-de-sac with a wall at the end of it, against which he crouched in his dream whilst the dog came nearer and nearer.
"What rot," was David's comment, "but if I felt like that, I jolly well know I'd knock the brute on the head."
"Would you?" said Edward, and that was all that had passed. Only, when a week later Pellico's dog was poisoned, David was filled with righteous indignation. He stormed at Edward.
"You did it--you know you did it. You did it with some of that beastly bug-killing stuff that you keep knocking about."
Edward was pale, but there was an odd gleam of triumph in the eye
This early work by the author of the "Miss Silver" mysteries shows promise, but doesn't deliver.
It starts off well, with a wealthy, eccentric, declining, old man; his beetle-collecting nephew, avid for his demise; his dedicated doctor, painfully in love with the nephew's pretty wife, Mary; and Mary's sister, patiently in love with the doctor. Then the old man dies suddenly -- of arsenic poisoning!
It looks like we are in for a nice, juicy mystery. But then it all evaporates into a sappy, mystical romance with hardly any spice at all.
Fortunately, Wentworth improved significantly with her later novels -- the "Miss Silver" books are delightful -- but you'll have to seek those through commercial sources.