She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. 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. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. I shall always be kind to him; I sha'n't bait him.
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