Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. “Kick aht at ‘em!” though, indeed, she went now with Christian meekness, resenting only the thrusting policemen’s hands. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it. I suppose if one were to love some one, one would feel doubtful. . Using the shirt, she cleaned away the blood. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence.
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