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. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood. The fire still burned brightly. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. "Your master wants a few table-spoons, child," said Mrs. Every one turned to her in astonishment.
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