Wood. “Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her. It mattered not whether she flunked the year as she would soon be gone. “The Miss Pellissier who was at White’s with us. If we do not begin—” She had come to a resolution. There were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set him a-tremble. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. He could not tell whether she was English or American.
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