She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. She was furiously angry. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. She hesitated, and for a moment thought of omitting her second verse altogether.
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