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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. It was explosive and gratifying. Stanley took mustard savagely. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself.
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