Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. His instinct was in the direction of considering his daughters his absolute property, bound to obey him, his to give away or his to keep to be a comfort in his declining years just as he thought fit. “What the devil are you doing star-gazing here?” Ennison looked at him in surprise.
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