The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. The young lady saw the change, and almost snorted. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. Like carpenter, like chips.
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