But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. His hug became an embrace. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. And, when I have seen him pining away before my eyes, getting thinner and thinner every day, I have sometimes thought my prayers were heard. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously.
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