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. Treading with noiseless step over the soft mould, they soon reached the building. "The traps!" responded a bystander. “What’s going on with you?” John asked inquisitively, looking down at her abdomen. . "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow.
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