"Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. ’ ‘Yes, but what is it, Jacques?’ demanded the lady. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. ‘Hilary, you must stop referring to mademoiselle as “she”.
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