She started with _surprise_.
"What do you want here?" said she.
"To speak to you."
"How dare you speak to me after your vile suspicions?"
"Well, but, Julia--"
"How dare you call me Julia?"
"Well, Miss Clifford, won't you even hear me?"
"Not a word. It's through you poor dear Mary and I have both been
insulted by that wretch of a father of hers."
"Which father?"
"I said wretch. To whom does that term apply except to Mr. Bartley, and"
(with sudden vigor) "to you."
"Then you think I am as bad as old Bartley," said Percy, firing up.
"No, I don't."
"Ah," said Percy, glad to find there was a limit.
But Julia explained: "I think you are a great deal worse. You pretend to
love me, and yet without the slightest reason you doubt me."
"What did I doubt? I thought you had parted with my bracelet to another
person, and so you had. I never doubted your honor."
"Oh yes, you did; I saw your face."
"I am not r--r--responsible for my face."
"Yes, you are; you had no business to look broken-hearted, and miserable,
and distrustful, and abominable.
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