Lord Farrington tore the letter in anger. He ripped the thick paper straight down the middle with a sudden, violent, jerky motion. He crumpled the pieces into a tight, hard ball in his fist and threw it violently against the stone fireplace.
He was so furious that his face was completely red. The blood rushed to his head, making his pale skin flush with a hot, ugly, purple rage. The veins on his forehead stood out thick and pulsing against his skin.
"Everything was going well," Lord Farrington hissed through his clenched teeth. His voice was a harsh, ragged whisper. "Where did I go wrong? I planned everything perfectly!"
He asked himself the question, completely unable to accept that nature had ruined his brilliant, flawless scheme. He was supposed to be completely above such common, pathetic failures.
