“Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs. You know you do, Annabel. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. She wished her father and aunt would not enjoy their dinner with such quiet determination. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. Or had you not noticed?’ He sneered.
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