Immeasurable disgust possessed her. “Not to-night,” she said. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. It was the first expression of the mother's blood. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. . And the woollen-draper departed. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. "Yes, now," rejoined the infuriated dame; "perhaps, I may never have another opportunity. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it.
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