They are horrible. 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. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet. “Did he tell you, Annabel?” “Yes.
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