I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. She felt a cheat and a sneak to his unsuspecting retreating back. She could now see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she came upon the first page. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. "I fear not," replied Jack, despondingly. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture.
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