“Oh, God!” she said at last, “how I wish I had been taught to pray!” Part 3 She had some idea of putting these subtle and difficult issues to the chaplain when she was warned of his advent. He continued thoughtfully. 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. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. Her father became much less distant towards his only daughter in the days that followed. E. "Here we part,—perhaps for ever. ‘I feared as much. ‘Don’t lose your temper again.
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