But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. “Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. Her father had determined on a new line.
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