A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. Doesn’t matter a bit to me. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. She wanted to take him in her arms and hush him, but she sat perfectly still. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict.
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