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. She seemed just as stiff and shy as a girl ought to be, Lady Palsworthy thought, neither garrulous nor unready, and free from nearly all the heavy aggressiveness, the overgrown, overblown quality, the egotism and want of consideration of the typical modern girl. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. Then she came a few steps to meet him. Return, I implore of you, to your master,—to Mr. . But you shall swing, rascal,—you shall swing.
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