Even this cut glass on our table--see! What tragedies it could reveal, could it but speak! What tales of coughing, consumptive glass-cutters, bending over wheels, their lungs cut to pieces by the myriad spicules of sharp glass, so that we, we of our class, may enjoy beauty of design and coloring! And the silken gown I wear--that too has cost--" "No more! No more of this!" gurgled old Flint, now nearly in apoplexy.
"I deny you! I repudiate you, Anarchist that you are! Go! Never come back--never, never--!" Stumbling blindly, he turned and staggered out of the room.

She watched him go, nor tried to steady his uncertain steps.

In the hallway, outside, she heard him ring for Slawson, heard the valet come, and both of them ascend the stairs.
"Father," she whispered to herself, a look of great and pure spiritual beauty on her noble face, "father, this had to come.

Sooner or later, it was inevitable.

Whatever you have done, I forgive you, for you _are_ my father, and have surely acted for what you think my interest.
"But none the less, the end is here and now.