If the marrow in one's backbone should melt, it would be sartin to run out at the tip of one's tail.

Then came a maid with hand-bag and shawls, and after her a tall young lady.[…]She looked around expectantly, and recognizing Mrs. Cooke's maid[…]Miss Thorn greeted her with a smile which greatly prepossessed us in her favor.

In the process, everybody begins to hate his guts because they don't trust him for shit but, you know, he sees himself as the guy who's going to be pragmatic and go down the middle, a lot of people saying, I think he's with Rosselló, se vendió!

It is not the whiny, helpless, victimy kind of dependency.