“I have been very selfish,” she declared. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. Her aunt leaped unhappily to the thought of penitence. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. Silly, isn’t it? Undisciplined. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof.
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