"For heaven's sake--Violet--what's all this?" exclaimed Mrs. de
Lancey as we four entered the room.
It was the first time we had seen the redoubtable Aunt Emma. She
was a large woman, well past middle age, and must have been
handsome, rather than pretty, when she was younger. Everything
about Mrs. de Lancey was correct, absolutely correct. Her dress
looked like a form into which she had been poured, every line and
curve being just as it should be, having "set" as if she had been
made of reinforced concrete. In short, she was a woman of "force."
An incursion such as we made seemed to pain her correct soul
acutely. And yet, I fancied that underneath the marble exterior
there was a heart and that secretly she was both proud and jealous
of her dainty niece.
Violet sank into a chair and Garrick deposited Warrington,
thoroughly exhausted, on a couch.
Mrs. de Lancey looked sternly at Warrington, as though in some way
he might be responsible. I could not help feeling that she had a
peculiar sense of conscientiousness about him, that she was just a
bit more strict in gauging him than she would have been if he had
not been the wealthy young Mr.
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