"Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. " "With a face as square and flat as a bottle of gin. I will dedicate my books to you. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. “You see, her sister is married to Ferringhall, isn’t she? and she herself must be drawing no end of a good screw here. Brendon told him the name of a distant restaurant and sprang in by her side.
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