Wood heard the cry. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. “But Sebastian! I need them!” He smiled, not a smile of comfort, but a smile of terrible menace. It could not be she who had done this. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid.
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