“Your brother has gone?” she asked Sydney, between the courses. “I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. Before I met you I never met any one whom I felt I could love, but you have discovered depths in my own nature I had scarcely suspected. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. 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.
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