” Michelle sat in a yogi’s posture on the cold plywood, her eyes closed as if meditating. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so. And yet the moment I am safely out of the way you are content to dress yourself in my rags, to go and get yourself popular and admired and successful, all on my reputation. " "Go on, tell me," he urged, enchanted. 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. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque.
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