“You defy me?”
“If that is defying you, father, yes. The dress was given to me.”
“You refuse to say by whom?”
“Yes, father.”
“Then leave my presence. I am angry, hurt. Sylvia, you must return it.”
“Again, no, father.”
“Sylvia, have you ever heard of the Fifth Commandment?”
“I have, father; but I will break it rather than return the dress. I have been a good daughter to you, but there are limits. You have no right to interfere. The dress was given to me; I did not steal it.”
“Now you are intolerable. I will not be agitated by you; I have enough to bear. Leave me this minute.”
Sylvia left the room. She did not go to Jasper; she felt that she could not expose her father in the eyes of this woman. She ran up to her own bedroom, locked the door, and flung herself on her bed. Of late she had not done this quite so often. Circumstances had been happier for her of late: her father had been strange, but at the same time affectionate; she had been fed, too, and warmed; and, oh! the pretty dress—the pretty dress—she had liked it. She was determined that she would not give it up; she would not submit to what she deemed tyranny. She wept for a little; then she got up, dried her tears, put on her cloak (sadly thin from wear), and went out. Pilot came, looked into her face, and begged for her company. She shook her head.