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 			<p>Presently Harriett took up a brooch and skated down the room, “Ta‑ra‑ra‑la‑eee‑tee!” she carolled, “don’t be long,” and disappeared.</p>
 			<p>“I’m pretty,” murmured Miriam, planting herself in front of the dressing table. “I’m pretty⁠—they like me⁠—they <em>like</em> me. Why didn’t I know?” She did not look into the mirror. “They all like me, <em>me</em>.”</p>
 			<p>The sound of the breakfast bell came clanging up through the house. She hurried to her side of the curtained recess. Hanging there were her old red stockinette jersey and her blue skirt⁠ ⁠… never again⁠ ⁠… just once more⁠ ⁠… she could change afterwards. Her brown, heavy best dress with puffed and gauged sleeves and thick gauged and gathered boned bodice was in her hand. She hung it once more on its peg and quickly put on her old things. The jersey was shiny with wear. “You darling old things,” she muttered as her arms slipped down the sleeves.</p>
-			<p>The door of the next room opened quietly and she heard Sarah and Eve go decorously downstairs. She waited until their footsteps had died away and then went very slowly down the first flight, fastening her belt. She stopped at the landing window, tucking the frayed end of the petersham under the frame of the buckle⁠ ⁠… they were all downstairs, liking her. She could not face them. She was too excited and too shy.⁠ ⁠… She had never once thought of their “feeling” her going away⁠ ⁠… saying goodbye to each one⁠ ⁠… all minding and sorry⁠—even the servants. She glanced fearfully out into the garden, seeing nothing. Someone called up from the breakfast room doorway, “Mim‑my!” How surprised <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bart had been when he discovered that they themselves never knew whose voice it was of all four of them unless you saw the person, “but yours is really richer”⁠ ⁠… it was cheek to say that.</p>
+			<p>The door of the next room opened quietly and she heard Sarah and Eve go decorously downstairs. She waited until their footsteps had died away and then went very slowly down the first flight, fastening her belt. She stopped at the landing window, tucking the frayed end of the petersham under the frame of the buckle⁠ ⁠… they were all downstairs, liking her. She could not face them. She was too excited and too shy.⁠ ⁠… She had never once thought of their “feeling” her going away⁠ ⁠… saying goodbye to each one⁠ ⁠… all minding and sorry⁠—even the servants. She glanced fearfully out into the garden, seeing nothing. Someone called up from the breakfast room doorway, “Mim‑my!” How surprised <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bart had been when he discovered that they themselves never knew whose voice it was of all four of them unless you saw the person, “but yours is really richer”⁠ ⁠… it was cheek to say that.</p>
 			<p>“Mim‑my!”</p>
 			<p>Suddenly she longed to be gone⁠—to have it all over and be gone.</p>
 			<p>She heard the kak-kak of Harriett’s wooden heeled slippers across the tiled hall. She glanced down the well of the staircase. Harriett was mightily swinging the bell, scattering a little spray of notes at each end of her swing.</p>

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 			<p class="continued">Wow-wow-wow-whiney-caterwauley.⁠ ⁠…</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brough quoted Milton in a sermon and said he was a materialist.⁠ ⁠… Pater said it was a bold thing to say.⁠ ⁠… <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brough was a clearheaded man. She couldn’t imagine how he stayed in the Church.⁠ ⁠… She hoped he hated that sickening, sickening, idiot humbug, Eve⁠ ⁠… meek⁠ ⁠… with silly long hair⁠ ⁠… “divinely smiling”⁠ ⁠… Adam was like a German⁠ ⁠… English too.⁠ ⁠… Impudent bombastic creature⁠ ⁠… a sort of man who would call his wife “my dear.” There was a hymn that even Pater liked⁠ ⁠… the tune was like a garden in the autumn.⁠ ⁠…</p>
+			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Brough quoted Milton in a sermon and said he was a materialist.⁠ ⁠… Pater said it was a bold thing to say.⁠ ⁠… <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Brough was a clearheaded man. She couldn’t imagine how he stayed in the Church.⁠ ⁠… She hoped he hated that sickening, sickening, idiot humbug, Eve⁠ ⁠… meek⁠ ⁠… with silly long hair⁠ ⁠… “divinely smiling”⁠ ⁠… Adam was like a German⁠ ⁠… English too.⁠ ⁠… Impudent bombastic creature⁠ ⁠… a sort of man who would call his wife “my dear.” There was a hymn that even Pater liked⁠ ⁠… the tune was like a garden in the autumn.⁠ ⁠…</p>
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 				<p>
 					<span>O⁠ ⁠… Strengthen and <em>Stay</em>⁠—up⁠—⁠ ⁠… Holding⁠—all</span>

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 			<p>The peaceful Dutch fields came to her mind. They looked so secure. They had passed by too soon. We have always been in a false position, she pondered. Always lying and pretending and keeping up a show⁠—never daring to tell anybody.⁠ ⁠… Did she want to tell anybody? To come out into the open and be helped and have things arranged for her and do things like other people? No.⁠ ⁠… No.⁠ ⁠… “Miriam always likes to be different”⁠—“Society is no boon to those not sociable.” Dreadful things⁠ ⁠… and the girls laughing together about them. What did they really mean?</p>
 			<p>“Society is no boon to those not sociable”⁠—on her birthday page in Ellen Sharpe’s birthday book. Ellen handed it to her going upstairs and had chanted the words out to the others and smiled her smile⁠ ⁠… she had not asked her to write her name⁠ ⁠… was it unsociable to dislike so many of the girls.⁠ ⁠… Ellen’s people were in the Indian⁠ ⁠… her thoughts hesitated.⁠ ⁠… Sivvle⁠ ⁠… something grand⁠—All the grand girls were horrid⁠ ⁠… somehow mean and sly⁠ ⁠… Sivvle⁠ ⁠… <em>Sivvle</em>⁠ ⁠… <em>Civil!</em> Of course! Civil <em>what</em>?</p>
 			<p>Miriam groaned. She was a governess now. Someone would ask her that question. She would ask Pater before he went.⁠ ⁠… No, she would not.⁠ ⁠… If only he would answer a question simply, and not with a superior air as if he had invented the thing he was telling about. She felt she had a right to all the knowledge there was, without fuss⁠ ⁠… oh, without fuss⁠—without fuss and⁠—emotion.⁠ ⁠… I <em>am</em> unsociable, I suppose⁠—she mused. She could not think of anyone who did not offend her. I don’t like men and I loathe women. I am a misanthrope. So’s Pater. He despises women and can’t get on with men. We are different⁠—it’s us, him and me. He’s failed us because he’s different and if he weren’t we should be like other people. Everything in the railway responded and agreed. Like other people⁠ ⁠… horrible.⁠ ⁠… She thought of the fathers of girls she knew⁠—the Poole girls, for instance, they were to be “independent” trained and certificated⁠—she envied that⁠—but her envy vanished when she remembered how heartily she had agreed when Sarah called them “sharp” and “knowing.”</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Poole was a business man⁠ ⁠… common⁠ ⁠… trade.⁠ ⁠… If Pater had kept to Grandpa’s business they would be trade, too⁠—well-off, now⁠—all married. Perhaps as it was he had thought they would marry.</p>
+			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Poole was a business man⁠ ⁠… common⁠ ⁠… trade.⁠ ⁠… If Pater had kept to Grandpa’s business they would be trade, too⁠—well-off, now⁠—all married. Perhaps as it was he had thought they would marry.</p>
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 			<p>She thought sleepily of her Wesleyan grandparents, gravely reading the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Wesleyan Methodist Recorder</i>, the shop at Babington, her father’s discontent, his solitary fishing and reading, his discovery of music⁠ ⁠… science⁠ ⁠… classical music in the first Novello editions⁠ ⁠… Faraday⁠ ⁠… speaking to Faraday after lectures. Marriage⁠ ⁠… the new house⁠ ⁠… the red brick wall at the end of the garden where young peach trees were planted⁠ ⁠… running up and downstairs and singing⁠ ⁠… both of them singing in the rooms and the garden⁠ ⁠… she sometimes with her hair down and then when visitors were expected pinned in coils under a little cap and wearing a small hoop⁠ ⁠… the garden and lawns and shrubbery and the long kitchen garden and the summerhouse under the oaks beyond and the pretty old gabled “town” on the river and the woods all along the river valley and the hills shining up out of the mist. The snow man they both made in the winter⁠—the birth of Sarah and then Eve⁠ ⁠… his studies and book-buying⁠—and after five years her own disappointing birth as the third girl, and the coming of Harriett just over a year later⁠ ⁠… her mother’s illness, money troubles⁠—their two years at the sea to retrieve⁠ ⁠… the disappearance of the sunlit red-walled garden always in full summer sunshine with the sound of bees in it or dark from windows⁠ ⁠… the narrowing of the house life down to the Marine Villa⁠—with the sea creeping in⁠—wading out through the green shallows, out and out till you were more than waist-deep⁠—shrimping and prawning hour after hour for weeks together⁠ ⁠… poking in the rock pools, watching the sun and the colours in the strange afternoons⁠ ⁠… then the sudden large house at Barnes with the “drive” winding to the door.⁠ ⁠… He used to come home from the City and the Constitutional Club and sometimes instead of reading <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">The Times</i> or the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Globe</i> or the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.journal">Proceedings of the British Association</i> or Herbert Spencer, play Pope Joan or Jacoby with them all, or Table Billiards and laugh and be “silly” and take his turn at being “bumped” by Timmy going the round of the long dining room table, tail in the air; he had taken Sarah and Eve to see <i epub:type="se:name.music.opera" xml:lang="it">Don Giovanni</i> and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Winter’s Tale</i> and the new piece, <i epub:type="se:name.music.opera" xml:lang="de">Lohengrin</i>. No one at the tennis club had seen that. He had good taste. No one else had been to Madame Schumann’s Farewell⁠ ⁠… sitting at the piano with her curtains of hair and her dreamy smile⁠ ⁠… and the Philharmonic Concerts. No one else knew about the lectures at the Royal Institution, beginning at nine on Fridays.⁠ ⁠… No one else’s father went with a party of scientific men “for the advancement of science” to Norway or America, seeing the Falls and the Yosemite Valley. No one else took his children as far as Dawlish for the holidays, travelling all day, from eight until seven⁠ ⁠… no esplanade, the old stone jetty and coves and cowrie shells.⁠ ⁠…</p>
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