CHAPTER XX. ” Part 6 In the afternoon she resumed her search for apartments. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. I picked up her handkerchief on the floor. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. Yes, it was Manningtree really secured your father. She pointed. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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