The mighty concourse became for a moment still. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. Kneebone took his leave. “No, don’t interrupt me. Yours?" The stranger hesitated. Just. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. John’s demeanor shifted. “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.
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