She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. CHAPTER XIII. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. Just sit down on that stool again and let’s talk of this in cold blood. In a side-glance—for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade.
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