From her rosy cheeks to her stout ankles she was superabundant with vitality, the strangest contrast to her shadowy, thin old grandfather.

About the preparation of her father's tea she moved with a sort of brooding stolidity, out of which would suddenly gleam a twinkle of rogue-sweetness, as when she stopped to stroke the little cat or to tickle the back of her grandfather's lean neck in passing.

Having set the tea, she stood by the table and said slowly: "Tea's ready, father.
I'm goin' to London." Tom Gaunt put down his pipe and journal, took his seat at the table, filled his mouth with sausage, and said: "You're goin' where I tell you." "I'm goin' to London." Tom Gaunt stayed the morsel in one cheek and fixed her with his little, wild boar's eye.
"Ye're goin' to catch the stick," he said.

"Look here, my girl, Tom Gaunt's been put about enough along of you already.

Don't you make no mistake." "I'm goin' to London," repeated the rogue-girl stolidly.