Then she stood up and looked around the room. 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. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street.
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