But never had the hand touched her with a father's caress; never had he taken her into his arms; never had he kissed her. For the first time a definite doubt possessed him. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. "Yes; and I hope you'll take ample vengeance upon him," said Quilt. Papa has sent me to be religieuse. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. “Very well,” he said.
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