" "I'm not afraid, mother," said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. “What the hell. The doctor paced the room half a dozen times. Most of my people are upstairs dressing for dinner.
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