Then Capes shifted his eyes to her microscope and the little trays of unmounted sections beside it. “Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. ” He scarcely saw her face again. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell.
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