" "Your own was equally so," said Jackson ironically. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Michelle was in sight, Lucy could hear her voice, high in the crowd, and saw her blond head bobbing among a sea of faces. I consented. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. And yet he knew clearly and definitely what he purposed to do, what the future would be. He had gained admission somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood.
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