Brendon felt his arm seized. He was pretty successful in Manchester,—a town which may be said to have been the head-quarters of the disaffected. As he crossed the cellar, he passed so near to Jack who had concealed himself behind a piece of furniture that he almost touched him. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. 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. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled.
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