Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. The veins in his throat and forehead swelled and blackened; his eyes protruded from their sockets, and stared wildly; a thick damp gathered on his brow: and blood gushed from his mouth, nostrils, and ears. She gained her room, and slammed her door and locked it as though she feared violence and pursuit. ’ ‘But it is a very good English name,’ she protested. He was now almost driven to despair. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression.
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