The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. “Veronica!” cried Miss Stanley, warningly, and, “Peter!” For a moment they seemed on the verge of an altogether desperate scuffle. But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. " "Six," he corrected. “Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears.
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