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. "Begone! or I fire!" he cried. She leaned back in the corner of the cab with a little sigh of relief. Things happen out this way. He does not look the criminal.
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