He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. I haven’t, anyhow. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis Hill. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. The Ragged Edge.
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