Manning came into her thoughts again, an unexpected, tall, dark, self-contained presence at the Fadden. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. I thought that you loved Paris and your work so much.
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