Still, thereafter she had avoided Morgan's; partly out of fear and partly because of her father's mandate. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. "His disguise was capital; but I detected it in a moment. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. That's one of the troubles with young folks: they take themselves so seriously. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. I thought every one had heard about it. If he had imagined Melusine would be hampered by her petticoats, he was disappointed. There was, it might be said, a double illumination. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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