Caravaggio paintings

such-like. It made one go dotty - that's what it did.
And just as he was telling himself that, there came to the door a loud knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph boy. But before he had time to get across the room, let alone to the front door, Ellen had rushed through the room, clad only in a petticoat and shawl.
"I'll go," she cried breathlessly. "I'll go, Bunting; don't you trouble."
He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the hall.
She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the door, took the telegram from the invisible boy. "You needn't wait," she said. "If there's an answer we'll send it out ourselves." Then she tore the envelope open - "Oh!" she said with a gasp of relief. "It's only from Joe Chandler, to say he can't go over to fetch Daisy this morning. Then you'll have to go."
She walked back into their sitting-room. "There!" she said. "There it is, Bunting. You just read it."
"Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as arranged. - Chandler