exactly remember, but will wager is feminine.

My being left to him was an insult to me, though of course Father did
not see it that way. He adored the Crag, as everybody else in Glendale
does, and wouldn't have considered not leaving him precious me. Wanting
to ignore Cousin James, because I was bound out to him until my
twenty-fifth year or marriage, which is worse, has kept me from Glendale
all these four years since father died suddenly while I was away at
college, laid up with the ankle which I broke in the gymnasium. Still,
as much as I resent him, I keep the letter the Crag wrote me the night
after Father died, right where I can put my hand on it if life suddenly
panics me for any reason. It covers all the circumstances I have yet
met. I wonder if I ought to burn it now!

But, to be honest with myself, I will have to confess that the
explosively sentimental scene on the front porch, the night I left for
college, with Polk Hayes has had something to do with my cowardice in
lingering in foreign climes. I feel that it is something I will have to
go on with some day, and the devil will have to pick up the chips. Polk
is the kind of man that ought to be exterminated by the government in
sympathy for its women wards, if his clan didn't make such good citizens
when they do finally marry. He ought at least to be labeled "poison for
the very young." I was very young out on the porch that night. Still, I
don't resent him like I do the archaic Crag.

And as Jane talked, my seasoned indignation of four years against my
keeper flared up, and while she paused at intervals for breath I hurled
out plans for his demolishment. I wish now I had been more
conservatively quiet, and left myself a loophole, but I didn't. I walked
into this situation and shut the door behind me.