" "I can't exactly say, Sir Rowland. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. They either ran to see or ran for shelter. ” He examined the emerald in his hands and placed it carefully on the glass table. 192 Her skirt had ridden almost to her hips. “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. “Who took care of you after she died?” “My father. ” He consumed Irish stew for some moments. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore.
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