She knew that in her new rôle she was as likely as not to be a rank failure. Disperse in every direction. 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. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her. I slaved over it, contacted half a dozen genealogy groups and came up with zilch.
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