He promised me, if I didn't like it, he'd put it in his own den, where _my_ friends couldn't see it.

So I really don't care a straw!' 'Bella! don't be rude!' said her mother, severely.

She rose and came to look at the picture.
Bella's colour took a still sharper accent; her chest rose and fell; she fidgeted an angry foot.
'I told Mr.Fenwick hundreds of times,' she protested, 'that he was making my upper lip miles too long--and that I _hadn't_ got a nasty staring look like that--nor a mouth like that--nor--nor anything.
It's--it's too bad!' The girl turned away, and Fenwick, glancing at her in dismay, saw that she was on the point of indignant tears.
Mrs.Morrison put on her spectacles.

She was a small, grey-haired woman with a face, wrinkled and drawn, from which all smiles seemed to have long departed.

Even in repose, her expression suggested hidden anxieties--fears grown habitual and watchful; and when she moved or spoke, it was with a cold caution or distrust, as though in all directions she was afraid of what she might touch, of possibilities she might set loose.
She looked at the picture, and then at her daughter.
'It's not flattered,' she said, slowly.