Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always be on his shoulder. How old are you?’ ‘I have nineteen years, and it is quite unimportant. The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount.
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