Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship. “She must have character. Even now I do not understand. “There isn’t any way you could be worse than John. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. In the midst of this light stood a young woman.
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