“I am going into my sitting-room,” he said; “do not disturb me again to-day.”
“But you must have a fire!”
“I decline to have a fire.”
“You will die of cold.”
“Much you care.”
“Father!”
“Yes, Sylvia, much you care; you are like the one who gave you being. I will not say any more.”
She started away at this; he knew she would. She was patient with him almost beyond the limits of human patience, but she could not stand having her mother abused.
He went down the passage, and locked himself in his sitting-room.
“Now I can think,” he thought; “and to-night when Sylvia is in bed I will bury the last canvas bag.”