Cathy sighed. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. He found his youngest daughter intrusive in his thoughts all through the morning, and still more so in the afternoon. What they do with him afterward is off my ticket, no concern of James Boyle; they can lock him up or let him go. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often.
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