He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. As the wedding neared, she bought some finer things: a veal roast for supper, a single pearl for the dowry. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. Still, there certainly was something in the idea of a treaty. But I see very clearly that as things are a daughter is necessarily dependent on her father and bound while she is in that position to live harmoniously with his ideals.
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