Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. 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. "Where to, master?" asked Ben, touching his woollen cap. But that doesn’t alter the fact that there IS innocence. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side.
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