‘I knowed he were a wrong ’un, but that. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. . And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. She's my mealticket. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. “You will have some tea?” she asked.
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