“Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed. “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. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. You heard her. "You poor child!" said Prudence. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms. ‘He could have little comfort there, indeed. ” She said. But "fine" is the word. "This Enschede—the missioner. Wood, sinking into a chair, and fanning herself violently,—"what a fluster you have put me into with your violence, to be sure! And at the very time, too, when you know I'm expecting a visit from Mr. "This young fool is come to restore the article—whatever it may be—which Lady Trafford was anxious to conceal, and which his companion purloined.
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