Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. Wood is now in very affluent circumstances. She listened, listened intently for several minutes. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. He allowed his irons and clothes to be taken off without resistance. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew.
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