"And you wanted to leave Sympson Grove directly. You packed your things up, and papa threw them out of your trunk; mamma cried, Mrs. Pryor cried; they both stood wringing their hands begging you to be patient; and you knelt on the floor with your things and your up-turned box before you, looking, Shirley, looking--why, in one of _your_ passions. Your features, in such passions, are not distorted; they are fixed, but quite beautiful. You scarcely look angry, only resolute, and in a certain haste; yet one feels that at such times an obstacle cast across your path would be split as with lightning. Papa lost heart, and called Mr. Moore."
"Enough, Henry."

"And you wanted to leave Sympson Grove directly. You packed your things, and papa threw them out of your trunk; mamma and Mrs. Pryor cried, and begged you to be patient; and you knelt on the floor with your things in one of your passions. Your features, in such passions, are quite beautiful. You scarcely look angry, only resolute, and in haste; yet one feels that at such times an obstacle cast across your path would be split with lightning. Papa lost heart, and called Mr. Moore."
"Enough, Henry."
