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. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. Never glance sideways at man. “Of course I’m manager for this expedition,” he said, after an interval of self-examination. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see.
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