" "But I never saw anybody more alive. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. But what he could do or might do she could not imagine. When the woollen-draper was nearly worn out, the Amazon watched her opportunity, and hitting him on the arm, disabled it. “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. My thanks, by the by. They sat in the front row. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous complexion. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness.
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