“I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. Our ideal had fallen. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. " She laughed; and it was pleasant laughter in his ears. Almost had Martha won out. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring.
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