You know—I worship you. Give me your name, girl!’ ‘Again?’ Mademoiselle rolled her eyes. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess. What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness.
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