Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. . I struck him across the face, jumped out and went back by train to Paris.
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