Suppose our proper place is a shrine. In her usual style, she interviewed him for his life and was pleased that he liked nothing more than to talk about himself. 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. In the subdued light she could not tell whether he was asleep or awake. "You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth's father, Aliva," he said.
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