By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. “You know what? You’re right. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat.
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