But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. ‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love with her. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know.
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