\" Michelle drifted into a reverie. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. 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. One peculiarity she did not fail to notice. And always they were well satisfied.
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