In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. 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. As though accidentally she swept her skirts from a chair close drawn to her own.
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