She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Capes went first, finding footholds and, where the drops in the strataedges came like long, awkward steps, placing Ann Veronica’s feet. But at the word “home” she turned again. ” “I thought I explained—” “I don’t think you can have heard me,” said her father; “I have told you to come home. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. "No, I shan't," replied Rachel, saucily. She nodded. Mr. Lucy tried not to make her cringe noticeable. “Well?” she said, sitting down again. After a while he spoke again.
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