‘You were his daughter. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. I must have something in hand. You will have a bungalow to yourself," continued McClintock, "and your morning meal will be your own affair. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house.
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