He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. “I find it very hard to write this letter. ‘She’s gone. Lucy's ears were singing. 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. "Rot, weren't they?" "No.
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