de Barral; but when she died (without making a will) it
reverted to him, I imagine. They got that of course; but it was a mere
crumb in a Sahara of starvation, a drop in the thirsty ocean. I dare say
that not a single soul in the world got the comfort of as much as a
recovered threepenny bit out of the estate. Then, less than crumbs, less
than drops, there were to be grabbed, the lease of the big Brighton
house, the furniture therein, the carriage and pair, the girl's riding
horse, her costly trinkets; down to the heavily gold-mounted collar of
her pedigree St. Bernard. The dog too went: the most noble-looking item
in the beggarly assets.
What however went first of all or rather vanished was nothing in the
nature of an asset. It was that plotting governess with the trick of a
"perfect lady" manner (severely conventional) and the soul of a
remorseless brigand. When a woman takes to any sort of unlawful
man-trade, there's nothing to beat her in the way of thoroughness. It's
true that you will find people who'll tell you that this terrific
virulence in breaking through all established things, is altogether the
fault of men.
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