” A fair-haired young Englishman looked up from the depths of his easy chair. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. Try and let him never regret it. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. He knocked at the door. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. “Look at me. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. I have two days in which to earn nearly thirty shillings—that is with no dinners, and get a situation. Annabel, I was lying.
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