"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. Without betraying the slightest confusion, or making a single remark, he quietly resumed his seat. ‘No! Let me alone!’ ‘It is not safe!’ ‘That is entirely my affair, and not your affair in the least,’ she told him haughtily. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. "I haven't quite recovered the fright I got in the Vell-Hole," replied Abraham. Anna made things for her. After all, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be in a sense regarded as grownup.
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