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. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. Good night. I swear it. "Hush!—come hither, and I'll tell you. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. Funny codgers, aren't they?" he said. “We settled long ago—we’re hard stuff. If Ann Veronica could have put words to that song they would have been, “Hot-blooded marriage or none!” but she was far too indistinct in this matter to frame any words at all.
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