They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. After all, that was life. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. I do not think you quite understand my ideals or what is becoming as between father and daughter.
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