I want you to stop here." "Why, Anthony?
I thought you told me you were going to live in chambers in London and read for the Bar." "Well, London isn't Italy, and one doesn't eat dinners at Lincoln's Inn all the year round, one comes home sometimes.

And heaven knows whom you'll meet in those places or what tricks that horrible old aunt of yours will be playing with you.

Oh! it's wicked! How can you desert your poor father and mother in this way, to say nothing of your sisters?
I never thought you were so hard-hearted." "Anthony," said Barbara in a gentle voice, "do you know what we have got to live on?
In good years it comes to about 150 pounds, but once, when my father got into that lawsuit over the dog that was supposed to kill the sheep, it went down to 70 pounds.

That was the winter when two of the little ones died for want of proper food--nothing else--and I remember that the rest of us had to walk barefoot in the mud and snow because there was no money to buy us boots, and only some of us could go out at once because we had no cloaks to put on.

Well, all this may happen again.