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. "Restore it," he cried, in an authoritative voice. Voting wouldn’t do no ‘arm to ‘er. I'll try to fill in the gaps. We can be married tomorrow in Paris. Only the next of kin. “I shall not speak,” he said, “now or at any other time. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately.
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