"It ain't a question of what you want," retorted Warham roughly.
He was twenty-four hours and a night's sleep away from his first
fierce outblazing of fury--away from the influence of his wife
and his daughter. If it had not been for his brother Zeke,
narrow and cold, the event might have been different. But Zeke
was there to keep his "sense of duty" strong. And that he might
nerve himself and hide and put down any tendency to be a
"soft-hearted fool"--a tendency that threatened to grow as he
looked at the girl--the child--he assumed the roughest manner he
could muster.
"It ain't a question of what you want," he repeated. "It's a
question of what's got to be done, to save my family and you,
too--from disgrace. We ain't going to have any more bastards in
this family."
The word meant nothing to the girl. But the sound of it, as her
uncle pronounced it, made her feel as though the blood were
drying up in her veins.
"We ain't going to take any chances," pursued Warham, less
roughly; for now that he had looked the situation full and
frankly in the face, he had no nerve to brace himself. The
necessity of what he was prepared to do and to make her do was
too obvious. "Ferguson's here, and Zeke saw the preacher we sent
for riding in from the main road. So I've come to tell you. If
you'd like to fix up a little, why your Aunt Sallie'll be here
in a minute.
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