But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. His instinct was in the direction of considering his daughters his absolute property, bound to obey him, his to give away or his to keep to be a comfort in his declining years just as he thought fit. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. It might be dangerous to thwart him.
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