~Misnomer for it has no name~

She ran her fingers of the banister, feeling the grain of the wood, the smoothness of the unscathed surface, the chip below the beyond the second rail. It caught her with a splinter, but she kept pacing the hall, not even momentarily distracted. 1

The long skirt of her newly fashioned Parisian gown pulled and struck everything in sight before nearly tipping over the wash bin on the small stand, and her mother lunged to catch the almost falling dish. She glowered, a warning of hard temper and impatience at the daughters own eagerness.2

“Calm your self, girl,” she seethed. 3

She took her advice with the highest regard, but no sooner stood still then became overtaken with tremors of the wildest sort. She seated her self in the fireside chair, attempting to off-put nerves by playing with her long ringlets, but no more succeeded at that endeavor than in the last one. 4

In the midst of parade of distractions, the door to the study opened and her father stepped into the hall, and after giving his wife a glimpse of his reaction, and his daughter none, carried him self down the stairs and out of the house. 5

“How unfortunate for you, daughter,” the lady said, allowing her teeth to finally appear in a grossly happy smile, then sauntered down the stairs running her finger along the same banister with much less grace than Emmaline, who sat watching her in fear. The man was right, she thought. Things would no longer remain unchanged. 6