He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. Above her head was an aura of white fire. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently.
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