Suppose her father turned her out of doors! She did not care, she meant to go. A strong coarse man, and there were things in his eyes which made my blood run cold with terror. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. "Arundel Stairs," replied Wood, "the nearest point to Wych Street. Unless they remind him now and then not to. She took up a book and threw it down again. He and her father shook hands manfully. There was—a service.
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