He had changed her life dramatically, and she had missed him dreadfully. “Annabel,” she said brusquely. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. 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. “If you must go on with it,” said Hetty, “now’s your time.
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