Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. In a moment they were in the street outside. He deserves none. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it. Besides, you cannot tell where it will end. I've left mine on the spikes of the New Prison, and must borrow yours. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck.
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