Phebe was a girl, living as girls do, in a region of sentiment and feeling, hardly understanding a crime against property.

A girl like her had no idea of what his responsibility and his guilt were, money ranking so low in her estimate of life.

But old Marlowe would look at it quite differently.
His own careful earnings, scraped together by untiring industry and ceaseless self-denial, were lost--stolen by the man he had trusted implicitly.

For Roland Sefton did not spare himself any reproaches; he did not attempt to hide or palliate his sin.

There were other securities for small sums, like old Marlowe's, gone like his, and ruin would overtake half a dozen poor families, though the bulk of the loss would fall upon his senior partner, who was a hard man, of unbending sternness and integrity.