The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. She saw her aunt in tears, her father white-faced and hard hit. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long.
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