Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. A physiognomist, indeed, would have likened him to that crafty animal, and it must be owned the general formation of his features favoured such a comparison. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. Mary is very good, but she is too nervous to be the slightest protection. Her family are solid West End people, Kensington people. " "But how in the Lord's name was she brought up? There's a queer story back of this somewhere. E below.
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