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. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. ‘To see Charvill.
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