A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. “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. He did not disturb any of this litter, but left it as a mark of his prowess. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. ’ ‘Indeed?’ said Gerald, surprised. "You can do so. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. ” “You gave it him well. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister.
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