‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. How she hated talking of the man who was responsible for her being brought into the world. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead.
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