“Idiot!” She raged inwardly while she walked along with that air of self-contained serenity that is proper to a young lady of nearly two-and-twenty under the eye of the world. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. Blood and bone, body and spirit, she is selfish through and through. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. Just as he had succeeded in fixing his attention, it was again shaken, and he was almost unnerved by the sight of Mr. Anyhow he confessed that he was a fraud.
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