I’m not ashamed—of the things I’m doing. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. When the twins had first come to live in the 208 house, they were thin and bony, their tiny mouths crying for food. He died when I was.
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