'There were sharp, short, firm steps ranting up the passage. The wrenching wrongly of the handle gave his face time to solidify in quite incredulous indignation - then in came April.
She came straight up to him, stopped short of his carpet slippers, mirrored him as a turd on a cushion - and rapped out one word, like spitting.
"CAD!"
"I beg your..."
But she had gone. The door had banged. Another door had banged - and this time Lionel was ready for the glimpse of the great swerving saloon - and the swoosh of gravel.
As though his senses, not April, had taken leave down the drive[,] he rose in some haste to catch a last sight of them. No. There she went.
And slowly - slowly his face[,] taking it in, became corrugated - the laugh was not natural. She had been sick on him, actually left something on him. An archaism - and vomit.'
from Marching with April by Hugo Charteris (Chapter 18)
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