He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. She rose at once with a little exclamation, half of surprise, half of pleasure. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley. "Do not despair, my sweet soul," said Wood, in a soothing tone.
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