Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. I followed you home on the train. It doesn't look bad, does it?" "Mercy, no! That wasn't the thought. "Did I hear you …" began McClintock. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. That might happen on her birthday—in August. "Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven.
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