“How has the world taken it?” he asked. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. We’re hard stuff!” Then she went on: “To think that is my father! Oh, my dear! He stood over me like a cliff; the thought of him nearly turned me aside from everything we have done. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. .
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