Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. “Not too bad. But if I escape, my gratitude—" "Pshaw!" interrupted Jonathan, scornfully. The storm burst upon them in its fury. Immediately Spurlock began to chant one of these. "Be still, and you'll receive no injury," returned Jackson. 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.
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