He still belonged to herself, she believed; yet he could have Clara, take her home, sit with her next his mother in chapel, give her the same hymn-book he had given herself years before.

She heard him running quickly indoors.
But he did not go straight in.

Halting on the plot of grass, he heard his mother's voice, then Clara's answer: "What I hate is the bloodhound quality in Miriam." "Yes," said his mother quickly, "yes; DOESN'T it make you hate her, now!" His heart went hot, and he was angry with them for talking about the girl.

What right had they to say that?
Something in the speech itself stung him into a flame of hate against Miriam.

Then his own heart rebelled furiously at Clara's taking the liberty of speaking so about Miriam.