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. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. "Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. ‘She knows them. ” She glanced shyly at the mirror above her dressing-table, and then about her at the furniture, as though it might penetrate to the thoughts that peeped in her mind.
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