The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. The quiet encounter and home-coming Ann Veronica and she had contemplated was entirely disorganized by this misadventure; there were no adequate explanations, and after they had settled things at Ann Veronica’s lodgings, they reached home in the early afternoon estranged and depressed, with headaches and the trumpet voice of the indomitable Kitty Brett still ringing in their ears. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. Ramage,” she said, clinging to her one point, “I want to get out of this horrible little room. “Ye Gods!” she said at last. When he returned, it was always the same. She did not wince. But was it Faith? That is what she was this day going to find out. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. “I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you.
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