. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. ‘Because she, naturally enough, does not consider that it is in any way my affair. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady.
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