She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. No one. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst. “The truth!” It was a moment of awkwardness between the two sisters —a moment, too, charged with its own psychological interest, for there were secrets between them which for many months had made their intercourse a constrained and difficult thing. ‘At this present, I must appropriate Lady Bicknacre.
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