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. "Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. " He smiled at her as he smiled at death, cheerfully. You are captain of your soul; don't forget your Henley.
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