" "I think I remember reading something about your father in the papers," observed Wood. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. ” “I know. Life is so good. ” She smiled at him. . It is not at all comme il faut. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. Or I should have made love to you long ago. ’ ‘No, no,’ the other lady assured her with a twinkle. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger.
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