“Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know. It was red and chapped. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. His voice now had lost its ironies. He then said that if she would not obey him in this course she should “never darken his doors again,” and was, indeed, frightfully abusive. She fidgeted and looked away.
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