CHAPTER XVII. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. “Your affectionate “FATHER. I never want you to be ashamed of me. ” Her words were slurred with sleep. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table.
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