Her father had smiles ready for her, he seemed to be truly happy with her for the first time since her infancy. "First take the child," cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and clinging to the oar with a dying effort. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. "And now," he continued, sternly, "was it your master who has just ridden by?" "No," answered Quilt, sullenly. Wood hadn't struck me. ‘I am sorry to hear of your misfortunes. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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