"No, I shan't," replied Rachel, saucily. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. "Now your curiosity's satisfied, child," continued Kneebone, "perhaps, you'll attend to my orders.
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