S. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. You see—I didn’t understand. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. ’ ‘But you don’t look anything like her,’ burst out Mrs Ibstock. It melted her heart. “Well, make sure you use something. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. I shall now be able to test my skill. ‘She ought to be.
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