"It would have been better not to speak of me at all, of course; but I can't see that there is anything to resent--it is so funny!" "Funny!" Mr.Carewe repeated the word in a cracked falsetto, with the evident intention of mocking her, and at the same time hideously contorted his face into a grotesque idiocy of expression, pursing his lips so extremely, and setting his brows so awry, that his other features were cartooned out of all familiar likeness, effecting an alteration as shocking to behold, in a man of his severe cast of countenance, as was his falsetto mimicry to hear.

She rose in a kind of terror, perceiving that this contortion was produced in burlesque of her own expression, and, as he pressed nearer her, stepped back, overturning her chair.

She had little recollection of her father during her childhood; and as long as she could remember, no one had spoken to her angrily, or even roughly.
As she retreated from him, he leaned forward, thrusting the hideous mask closer to her white and horror-stricken face.
"You can't see anything to resent in that!" he gibbered.

"It's so funny, is it?
Funny! Funny! Funny! I'll show you whether it's funny or not, I'll show you!" His voice rose almost to a shriek.

"You hang around fires, do you, on the public streets at night?
You're a nice one for me to leave in charge of my house while I'm away, you trollop! What did you mean by going up on that roof?
You knew that damned Vanrevel was there! You did, I say, you knew it!" She ran toward the door with a frightened cry; but he got between it and her, menacing her with his upraised open hands, shaking them over her.
"You're a lovely daughter, aren't you!" he shouted hoarsely.