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. Several men and women were piled there like wood, dead, horribly gored. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis.
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