And the woollen-draper departed. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. 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. He taught her how to read and write in Latin and Greek, often rewarding her for her efforts with a flower or a trinket. One who—who—tres.
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