"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. But it’s very beastly. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. If I had been your companion only, and not your master, I might very well have been content to accept you for what you seem. The child was still safe. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip. I’ve bored you or something. Whenever she came upon the obliterated word and paused, her father would say: "Faith. . But go on. I pity her from the bottom of my heart.
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