“Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. She shook them off of one foot. “The rarefied air? I thought you had a better head. He stepped in with a heavy foreboding of calamity. Then they dressed her in a dirty dress of coarse serge and a cap, and took away her own clothes. He's got the gift of the gab. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. So go up-stairs and get your things together while I look out for a hansom. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so.
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