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订购热线：15811042829 Poor Yvette! Her lordly airs and ways were already hitting back at her, on the reflex. The rector was angry: his face had a snarling, doggish look, a sort of sneer. He was afraid his daughter was developing some of the rank, tainted qualities of She-who-was-Cynthia.

“You WOULD do the large with somebody else’s money, wouldn’t you?” he said, with a cold, mongrel sort of sneer, which showed what an utter unbeliever he was, at the heart. The inferiority of a heart which has no core of warm belief in it, no pride in life. He had utterly no belief in her.

Yvette went pale, and very distant. Her pride, that frail, precious flame which everybody tried to quench, recoiled like a flame blown far away, on a cold wind, as if blown out, and her face, white now and still like a snowdrop, the white snowflower of his conceit, seemed to have no life in it, only this pure, strange abstraction.

“He has no belief in me!” she thought in her soul. “I am really nothing to him. I am nothing, only a shameful thing. Everything is shameful, everything is shameful!”

A flame of passion or rage, while it might have overwhelmed or infuriated her, would not have degraded her as did her father’s unbelief, his final attitude of a sneer against her.