She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. “Gellett,” he called, “just come and clear up a mess, will you? I’ve smashed some things. Never sent for the shirt. ” “Go!” he said.
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