One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. One only. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. "This is our last transaction together.
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