She did not cry when she saw it, but choked a little, and turned away her head.
It was now dark, and hearing a bustle in the entry I looked out, and saw several staid men slowly rubbing their feet on the door-mat; the husbands had come to escort their wives home, and by nine o'clock they all went.

Veronica and I stayed by the door after they had gone.
"Look at Mrs.Dexter," she said; "I put the mice in her workbag." I burst into a laugh, which she joined in presently.
"I am sorry about the butterfly, Verry." And I attempted to take her hand, but she pushed me away, and marched off whistling.
A few days after this, sitting near the window at twilight, intent upon a picture in a book of travels, of a Hindoo swinging from a high pole with hooks in his flesh, and trying to imagine how much it hurt him, my attention was arrested by a mention of my name in a conversation held between mother and Mr.Park, one of the neighbors.
He occasionally spent an evening at our house, passing it in polemical discussion, revising the prayers and exhortations which he made at conference meetings.

The good man was a little vain of having the formulas of his creed at his tongue's end.

She sometimes lot these thread of his discourse, but argued also as if to convince herself that she could rightly distinguish between Truth and Illusion, but never discussed religious topics with father.

Like all the Morgesons, he was Orthodox, accepting what had been provided by others for his spiritual accommodation.