Her father was holding her waist, smiling. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. “Good, I’m so glad, Lucy. "Get ready the irons, Caliban. ’ I wanted, as I have never wanted before, to take you up, to make you mine, to carry you off and set you apart from all the strain and turmoil of life. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest.
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