That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. As you brew so must you drink. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. I was to blame to carry the matter so far. \" She looked at Mike. Wouldn't it be fun to see his name on a book-cover some day? He'll go strutting up and down without ever dreaming he owed the whole shot to us. As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. "I am very happy to be of service to you.
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