Mr. I don’t have to take this shit. He came to her and stood before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes. 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. This roof is still open to you. But I waited in vain.
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