She’s a snob. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. Clearing the few impediments in his way, he soon reached the condemned pew, where it had once been his fate to sit; and extending himself on the seat endeavoured to snatch a moment's repose. Talk to her of the new story; divert her; for this day her heart has been twisted sorely. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. Wood, carving for his friends, and pledging the carpenter, he had his hands full. She stepped backwards. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. ‘Laisse-moi. It shall be the bludgeon. You are the one person I can understand and feel—feel right with.
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