The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. She should leave sooner, but she just could not bear missing the event. It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. For the present the desire to fly was gone. The latter had delivered himself from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. ‘What is it that you told him?’ ‘Nothing, miss, I swear. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel. Glorious! The Pastoral.
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