"You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. "By my shalvation, boy," he added, fiercely, "if you don't take your hande off my peard, I'll sthrangle you. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. And what did she do? Not only did she cut his hand in her rage, but she refused to let him help her, and then she ran away from him. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. I do swear. If she could have held it in, perhaps the Virgin Mary would have sent her a miracle as reward for her strength. You're an angel of goodness. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order.
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