"Bah!" cried Jack, contemptuously; "nobody's disgraced and ruined unless he's found out. Then she had a baby and became as old as any really grown-up person, or older, and very dull. ” Anna’s demeanour was still imperturbable, her marble pallor untinged by the slightest flush of colour. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. Plote was sleeping or deaf. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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