“I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. Wood, "and take your son with you. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald. I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness. Martha had the square look of solid English citizenry, which was not deceiving.
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