It was as if she had grown right past her father into something older and of infinitely wider outlook, as if he had always been unsuspectedly a flattened figure, and now she had discovered him from the other side. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. Let—it—fall. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. It was the bitterest moment of her life.
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