"That doesn't look as if he thinks I'm all right,
does it? I'm--I'm not a low-down person. If I was, I could see a
reason. But I'm a gentleman. Every man in my family has been a
gentleman since--oh, you'll think I'm boasting. I didn't mean to say
this to you. It sounds snobbish. No, Christine, your father thinks I'm
guilty."
"He does not!" she whispered. "I know he doesn't. I've heard him argue
with mother about you. He has told her that he does not believe that
you killed your grandfather. I've heard him say it, David. He--he is
only thinking of--must I say it? Of the disgrace to us if you should
be caught and it came out we were your friends. That's it. He's
thinking of us, David. It is so foolish of him. We both have told him
so. But--but you don't know my father." There was a world of meaning
in that declaration--and it was not disrespectful, either.
David was discreetly silent. He was quelling the rage that always rose
in his heart when he thought of Thomas Braddock's attitude, not only
toward him but toward his wife.
"I wish he wouldn't look at it in that way, David," she resumed
plaintively.
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