His relation of the murder of Sir Rowland petrified even his fierce auditors. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. "I mean to have no one but yourself in it. 1. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. But he wrote on. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. Wood, when he does return, I'd send him about his business.
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