“Well——” She stopped short. " "Thought so. I’m a female thing at bottom. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. They had been so considerate of the earth they had touched that they barely left a footprint. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness.
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