“Yeah, I know. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. "No, I won't hear you, murderer," rejoined Wood. Then she sang. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account.
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