There is a place—This isn’t the place. Nothing at all. She had not noticed such beauty in many years, and it almost caused her to weep. Miss Stanley walked round the garden thinking, and presently house and garden reverberated to Ann Veronica’s slamming of the front door. 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. “I’ll get dressed. This was irregular.
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