She wouldn't have known how to begin. She was the
captive of the meanest conceivable fate. And she wasn't mean enough for
it. It is to be remarked that a good many people are born curiously
unfitted for the fate awaiting them on this earth. As I don't want you
to think that I am unduly partial to the girl we shall say that she
failed decidedly to endear herself to that simple, virtuous and, I
believe, teetotal household. It's my conviction that an angel would have
failed likewise. It's no use going into details; suffice it to state
that before the year was out she was again at the Fynes' door.
This time she was escorted by a stout youth. His large pale face wore a
smile of inane cunning soured by annoyance. His clothes were new and the
indescribable smartness of their cut, a _genre_ which had never been
obtruded on her notice before, astonished Mrs. Fyne, who came out into
the hall with her hat on; for she was about to go out to hear a new
pianist (a girl) in a friend's house. The youth addressing Mrs. Fyne
easily begged her not to let "that silly thing go back to us any more.
Pages:
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280