"Marcia—your daughter," she reminded him gently. "Are you going to forget that altogether?"
"Not," he replied, "if you are in need of succour or help, but I judge from your appearance that you need neither. You are flesh of my flesh, as I well know."
"I want nothing from you, father, except a little kindness," she pleaded.
His hands trembled.
"Kindness," he repeated. "That's strange hearing. You are without friends, perhaps? You made some, maybe, and they heard of your disgrace, and they've cast you off?"
She shook her head.
"No, it isn't that at all. I have many friends, and they most of them know my history."
"Friends of your own sort, then!"
Marcia moved uneasily in her chair.
"Father," she said gently, "don't you sometimes think that your views of life are a little narrow? I am very sorry indeed for what I did, inasmuch as it brought unhappiness to you. For the rest, I have nothing to regret."