Then she goes to a dramatic agent. ‘What?’ Roding snapped, coming quickly to tower above the window seat. She pulled, he rose to his feet. And yet, she would be easy prey in her present state of mind to any plausible, attractive scoundrel. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. I believe—I believe that I must risk it. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother.
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