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. “I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely. Between herself and yonder evil mind she had the strongest buckler God could give—love. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. Then, if you weren’t looking, he’d get five feet closer.
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