No, I mean what I say; there is absolutely
nothing else between us, and never has been. I should like to know
whether you are satisfied to believe that; much depends on it."
"Age and appearance?"
"About twenty--not quite so much--and strikingly handsome."
"H'm. Position in life?"
"A year ago was on the streets, to put it plainly; since then has
been getting her living at laundry-work."
"H'm. Name?"
"Ida Starr."
Mr. Woodstock had been gazing at the toes of his boots, still the
same smile on his face. When he heard the name he ceased to smile,
but did not move at all. Nor did he look up as he asked the next
question.
"Is that her real name?"
"I believe so."
The old man drew up his feet, threw one leg over the other, and
began to tap upon his knee with the fingers of one hand. He was
silent for a minute at least.
"What do you know about her?" he then inquired, looking steadily at
Waymark, with a gravity which surprised the latter. "I mean, of her
earlier life. Do you know who she is at all?"
"She has told me her whole story--a rather uncommon one, full of
good situations."
"What do you mean?"
The words were uttered with such harsh impatience that Waymark
started.
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