For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. “You ought at once—you ought at once to have told her that.
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