So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. Her desires were not for riches. "Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat.
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