He even hugged her a few times, something he had never done. ‘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. “I see the difficulty. She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway. She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. “Has he accused any one yet?” “Not yet,” he answered. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion.
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