‘He’d have been that happy if he’d known how you’re the spit of her, miss. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand, scarcely knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself alone. But then he began to take steps, and, at last, strides to something more and more like predominance. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. Such ambitions as he had were stereotyped and material. I do not think you quite understand my ideals or what is becoming as between father and daughter.
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