Her breath came fast in little sobbing pants. ‘Never. She had never heard anything so unholy. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. She thought of her aunt and that purse that was dropped on the table, and of many troublesome and ill-requited kindnesses; she thought of the help of the Widgetts, of Teddy’s admiration; she thought, with a new-born charity, of her father, of Manning’s conscientious unselfishness, of Miss Miniver’s devotion. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. She entered quietly and padded up to her shared bedroom. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves.
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