Like the parrot, she could memorize the lines, but she could not understand them. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. You sent back my Christmas checks. Nothing else matters. Her mind wandered back to that fateful day. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled.
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