It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. Manning loved her presented itself to her bloodlessly, stilled from any imaginative quiver or thrill of passion or disgust. Lucy did her best to avoid talking about it, but the subject was beguiling, as it almost always brought news about him from the grapevine within which Michelle was intravenously entwined. She recoiled.
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