She was in doubt.
"Well, hear something of my boyhood, Sylvia!" cried her father, and for the first time his voice became embittered.

"I was brought up by a respectable father.

Yes, respectable," he said, with a sneer.

"Everything about us was respectable.

We lived in a respectable house in a respectable neighborhood, and twice every Sunday we went to church and listened to a respectable clergyman.