She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. All in a moment. She would be healthy, too, and vigorous. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy.
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