To Capes he was almost deferential, and she had never seen him deferential in the old time, never. "Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. But he was not a father one could make much of. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face.
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