She always dawdled, so it was easy. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. She tried to think what she should do in this eventuality or that. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. CHAPTER I. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood.
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