“It isn’t a joke,” she said. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. Melusine grasped the hilt of the sword she had been carefully holding, and came out into the light. The young lady in the bureau said she would inquire, and Ann Veronica, while she affected to read the appeal on a hospital collecting-box upon the bureau counter, had a disagreeable sense of being surveyed from behind by a small, whiskered gentleman in a frock-coat, who came out of the inner office and into the hall among a number of equally observant green porters to look at her and her bags.
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