his grayish clay and read his greenish journal; an old clock ticked and
a little cat purred without provocation on the ledge of the tight-closed
window. Then the door opened and the rogue-girl appeared. She shook her
shoulders as though to dismiss the wetting she had got, took off her
turn-down, speckly, straw hat, put on an apron, and rolled up her
sleeves. Her arms were full and firm and red; the whole of her was full
and firm. From her rosy cheeks to her stout ankles she was superabundant
with vitality, the strangest contrast to her shadowy, thin old
grandfather. About the preparation of her father's tea she moved with a
sort of brooding stolidity, out of which would suddenly gleam a twinkle
of rogue-sweetness, as when she stopped to stroke the little cat or to
tickle the back of her grandfather's lean neck in passing. Having set
the tea, she stood by the table and said slowly: "Tea's ready, father.
I'm goin' to London."

Tom Gaunt put down his pipe and journal, took his seat at the table,
filled his mouth with sausage, and said: "You're goin' where I tell
you."

"I'm goin' to London."

Tom Gaunt stayed the morsel in one cheek and fixed her with his little,
wild boar's eye.

"Ye're goin' to catch the stick," he said. "Look here, my girl, Tom
Gaunt's been put about enough along of you already. Don't you make no
mistake."

"I'm goin' to London," repeated the rogue-girl stolidly. "You can get
Alice to come over."