But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. Michelle’s eyes were red and bloodshot. 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. But it’s very beastly. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. She laughed.
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