"The plot's out!" cried Jack. “Where?” “To that ball. “Is it your maid?” he asked. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. “That’s the point. It’s not like we’re getting married. Why had he glanced up—quite in that way?.
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