"My father is afraid of her himself." The name of her father brought me to a stop.

I looked at her as she walked by my side; I recalled the man, and the little I knew and the much I guessed of him; and comparing the one with the other, felt like a traitor to be silent.
"Speaking of which," said I, "I met your father no later than this morning." "Did you ?" she cried, with a voice of joy that seemed to mock at me.
"You saw James More?
You will have spoken with him, then ?" "I did even that," said I.
Then I think things went the worst way for me that was humanly possible.
She gave me a look of mere gratitude.

"Ah, thank you for that!" says she.
"You thank me for very little," said I, and then stopped.

But it seemed when I was holding back so much, something at least had to come out.

"I spoke rather ill to him," said I; "I did not like him very much; I spoke him rather ill, and he was angry." "I think you had little to do then, and less to tell it to his daughter!" she cried out.