The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. I have—run away. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. " "Do what you please with him," muttered Trenchard to Wild. We all get deceived sometimes. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart.
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