"Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising. “I will be off,” she declared. “Thank you. Don’t favour your father much, either, if it comes to that. ” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation. She would meet him upon this ground: he should never be given the slightest hint that she was unhappy. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. She felt very cool as he opened the door for her, as if she should have chic sunglasses and stiletto heels on, dark red lipstick. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. He had already spoken his mind on the folly of allowing a clearly dangerous female to escape a second time.
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