She felt she had to go on. He was speechless. It was the gratification of an immense necessity. “Mr. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her.
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