A quick flush stained her cheeks. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. 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. "I am very wicked," she said. A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test.
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