“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. And this time the departure had a tremendous effect of finality. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you. Accompanied by Sir Cecil, who still continued passionately enamoured of his sister, and to whom he represented that she had fallen a victim to the arts of a seducer, he set off, at fiery speed, for the metropolis. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin.
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