The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. I'd like to shake you until your bones rattled; but the bones of a Roundhead wouldn't rattle to any purpose. To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue. She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite.
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