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8 "Oh, please, father." Ada's voice was beginning to tremble now. Absent from her father she was capable of all sorts of acts of rebellion, but in his presence she quailed. She wanted to tell him that she saved enough in marcel waves, hairnets, and "treatments," alone, a year, to pay for the books—just about. She wanted to remind him that he had just settled for an absolutely unnecessary party gown for Beatrice, without objection. But her heart pounded, and pressed, and her throat choked. All she could say was, "Oh, please let me keep them. Oh, please, please," in a hopeless, hysterical manner.

"You heard me," replied Marcus shortly.

"But, father," jerkily Ada brought out, swallowing before every two or three words, "I can't—I just can't send them back now. Some of the leaves are cut." She wondered now that she had dared.

Her father ripped the bill in two, crumbled it up, and fired it across the room in the direction of the waste-basket. "Oh," he retorted. "Thought you'd force them on me, did you? Well, you won't. Return those books to-morrow morning! Understand? I'll make all necessary adjustments. I've had about enough of your disregard of my wishes."

He approached his own particular arm-chair,