She and Courtlaw drove homewards together. The other was to go into business—into a photographer’s reception-room, for example, or a costumer’s or hat-shop. Some part of the stiff vigour of the man seemed to have subsided. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. “Yes. ” He groaned. 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. Why do you think I’m indulging in all this very un-English love talk?’ ‘But you are idiot, Gérard. She recoiled.
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