Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. “Aren’t we all just odds and ends of humanity —the left-overs, you know. When they were going home she asked her mother why she and Gwen and Alice had cried. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time.
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