"As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. He said simply that he wanted her to live at home. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection.
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