In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. That is my way, my dear. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. Anna passed serenely out. Wood—and after him came his daughter.
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