" The Wastrel advanced. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. Spurlock was invariably at the high desk in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and the stores an occasional glance. 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. “You should quit. Why should God give particular attention to such a prayer, when He had ignored all others? Certainly there was a trap somewhere. She took the tray with both hands, gulped, and gave way to tears. “Dear me!” he said. ‘But I do not pay this penalty. It would be the culmination of her plan. But what affair is this of yours?’ But Captain Roding was not attending. Always the other things remained. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. “Everybody is taking it up,” said Miss Miniver.
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