"Restore it," he cried, in an authoritative voice. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. “You may go on with that work,” he said, “so long as you keep in harmony with things at home. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. Quite ordinary. I hate what I have to do to survive.
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