‘The truth is, Everett,’ she said brightly, limping up to the general and tucking a hand in his arm, ‘that the girl is you all over again. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. 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. "Better than your company, Saint Giles," replied Sheppard; "so, shut the door, and make yourself scarce.
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