Her mouth and chin were unlike
Grand's. They were perfect, they were beautiful. The eyes were
unmistakably his, and therefrom peered the character of the girl as
well as that of the man.
David was sharply cognizant of a feeling of repugnance. Much that had
puzzled him a moment before was perfectly plain to him now. She
championed the father because he had been stronger in her creation
than the mother.
"Did Mrs. Braddock prosecute her claim in person?" he asked, subduing
the impulse to set his friend right in the eyes of this girl.
"Not at all. She kept out of sight. Lawyers did it all."
"Did your father say where she was living at the time?"
"Oh, I know where she was living in London."
"London?" he said, suddenly cold.
"Yes. We saw her there, Centennial year. She had a home in one of
those nice little West End streets. Of course, we could have nothing
to do with her."
"Of course not," murmured he dumbly. "And Christine?"
"She was at the Sacred Heart Convent in Paris,--at school, you know.
Father wrote me about her."
He could not ask her the sickening question that was in his mind: was
Mary Braddock the woman in the case? But his heart was cold with
despair.
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