These rock-founded natures, self-reliant, world-defying, made all of love and iron, are a mighty comfort to weak ones; and so thought Dorothy as she lay crying in Richard's embrace.
And now, since you have seen Dorothy safe across the harbor-bar of her griefs, and she lies landlocked in the sure haven of the Pict arms, you might cross the way for a space, and learn what abode at the foot of all this disturbance of true lovers.
It was while Richard was closeted with Senator Hanway that the storm broke.

Mrs.Hanway-Harley, after reflection, had decided to speak to her daughter upon the subject of Storri and that noble Russian's suit.

To this end, Mrs.Hanway-Harley called Dorothy into a little parlor which opened off her bedchamber.

It was that particular apartment where Mrs.
Hanway-Harley took her naps, and afterward donned war-paint and feathers wherewith to burst upon society.
Dorothy came reluctantly, haunted with a forebode of impending griefs.
The room was a fashion of torture chamber to Dorothy.

Mrs.Hanway-Harley had summoned her to this room for admonition and reproach and punishment since ever she was ten years of age.