“Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. . . 3. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. Hartford had a very respectable sound. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. . There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. They thought that she was her own mother.
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