“Oh, you know,” she said. " "I will carry you to the house, or fetch Mr. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. I'm heading for bed. Life is two things, that’s how I see it; two things mixed and muddled up together. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “No,” she answered. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. I seek chaos, but not out of choice. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. Death belongs to God, young man.
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