“Some afternoon. How would it serve Nicholas to keep the truth from his daughter? A tiny thread of disquiet troubled him. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. And, thrusting a piece of iron into his mouth, he forced him out of the room. ‘Precisely. . Least of all myself. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. What you say is probably all true and necessary. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt.
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