Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. Unless they remind him now and then not to. I do not understand why you and your sister should not see more of one another. That is why I have dyed my hair, that is why I have abandoned my rôle of ingenuèe and altered my whole style of dress. McClintock, without comment, accepted the hand. They were terrible, horrible people.
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