"Lovingly as always,
"Baby Con."
When Carol read that letter she cried, and rubbed her face against her
husband's shoulder,--regardless of the dollar powder on his black coat.
"A teeny bit for father," she explained, "for all his girls are gone.
And a little bit for Fairy, but she has Gene. And quite a lot for
Larkie, but she has Jim and Violet." And then, clasping her arm about
his shoulders, which, despite her teasing remonstrance, he allowed to
droop a little, she cried exultantly: "But not one bit for me, for I
have you, and Connie is a poor, poverty-stricken, wretched little waif,
with nothing in the world worth having, only she doesn't know it yet."
CHAPTER IV
A WOMAN IN THE CHURCH
And there was a woman in the church.
There always is,--one who stands apart, distinct, different,--in the
community but not with it, in the church but not of it.
The woman in David's church was of a languorous, sumptuous type, built
on generous proportions, with a mass of dark hair waving low on her
forehead, with dark, straight-gazing, deep-searching eyes, the kind
that impel and hold all truanting glances. She was slow in movement,
suggesting a beautiful and commendable laziness. In public she talked
very little, laughing never, but often smiling,--a curious smile that
curved one corner of her lip and drew down the tip of one eye.
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