"You hear what I say? You understand me?"
"You mean that you won't be present at the wedding?"
"I do!" cried her mother, careless what she said so long as it
sounded emphatic. "You shall take all the responsibility. If you
like to throw yourself away on a bald-headed, dissipated man--as I
_know_ he is--it shall be entirely your own doing. I wash my hands
of it--and that's the last word you will hear from me on the
subject."
In consequence of which assertion she vilified Glazzard and Serena
for three-quarters of an hour, until her daughter, who had sat in
abstraction, slowly rose and withdrew.
Alone in her bedroom, Serena shed many tears, as she had often done
of late. The poor girl was miserably uncertain how to act. She
foresaw that home would be less than ever a home to her after this
accumulation of troubles, and indeed she had made up her mind to
leave it, but whether as a wife or as an independent woman she could
not decide. "On her own responsibility"--yes, that was the one
thing certain. And what experience had she whereon to form a
judgment? It might be that her mother's arraignment of Glazzard was
grounded in truth, but how could she determine one way or the other?
On the whole, she liked him better than when she promised to marry
him--yes, she liked him better; she did rot shrink from the
thought of wedlock with him.
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