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Her pa was only the smithy. “You will not object,” he said, glancing towards her, “to accepting a deposit. Her thick body was heavy and massive. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. Confound this slavery of sex! I am a man! I will get this under if I am killed in doing it!” She scowled into the cold blacknesses about her. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew.
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