“But, dear, think! He is your father. She looked at him mournfully. "That's for Winifred," vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily upon his shoulder. We struggle against it at first, but in the end we have to submit. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. E.
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