She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. ‘You dare to come to me? What do you wish of me? Why have you come? I do not want you!’ She swept round on Gerald abruptly and he braced for the onslaught.
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