"What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. "Read that. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. "How, Sir?" "Except by adoption. What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House.
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