The Magdalen in one of the ruder groups might have looked so.
'Will you please to come in ?' said Phoebe, leading the way to the parlour, which smelled musty and damp for lack of fire, and was still littered with old canvases, studies, casts, and other gear of the painter who had once used it as his studio.
Bella Morrison came in, but she refused a chair.
'There's no call for me to stay,' she said, sharply.

'You won't like what I came to do--I know that.' Phoebe looked at her, bewildered.
'I've brought back that picture of me your husband painted,' said the girl, putting down her parcel on the table.

'It's in there.' 'What have you done that for ?' said Phoebe, wondering.
'Because I loathe it--and all my friends loathe it, too.

Papa--' 'Oh! do tell me--how is Mrs.Morrison ?' cried Phoebe, stepping forward, her whole aspect quivering with painful pity.
'She's all right,' said Bella, looking away.

'We're going to live in Guernsey.