"If that sickly brat lives to be a man," continued Jonathan, rising, "I'll hang him upon the same tree as his father. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. He lunched in the Legal Club in Chancery Lane, and met Ogilvy. "Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. Brown broke the silence. Spurlock stepped into the room. .
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