‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. “Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know.
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