Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. Wild. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. ” He plunged into one of his drawers, and brought up a small gold-foiled bottle. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies.
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