” They were lingering over their dessert. Capes and her father stood up, and her father made a belated movement toward the curtain. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. “Come,” he said, “this is capital, capital. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. Let me go my own way towards them.
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