This was enough for the poor widow. Sheila, a normally sound sleeper, woke one night to find both her husband and her foster daughter had snuck from their beds, and this infuriated her. " "Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. I don't threaten idly, as you know. She has even found them accommodation in the house where she is putting up herself. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring.
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