Whatever anticipation Ann Veronica had formed of this vanished in the reality. Pause. “A volatile temperament—yes, a volatile temperament,” Mr. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. Ah, but she could remember; and many things there were that she would never forgive. “He’s got good taste, you know. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband.
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