She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. The events that had initially followed in the wake of her triumph over Emile Gosse had quite confused and dazed her. I’m very resourceful, you know. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly.
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