All her life Martha had been there. " "Do not speak of it," rejoined Thames, with a look of horror. 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. Once before—but that had been different. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. But she felt his lax figure become rigid. “Kick aht at ‘em!” though, indeed, she went now with Christian meekness, resenting only the thrusting policemen’s hands. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. But the rise of the chest was quite perceptible now.
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