“I have no wish,” he said, “to altogether ignore the fact that you are my wife’s sister, and have therefore a certain claim upon me. We had better have it over. If you’ve got anything to say, you must say it to your aunt—” “But look here, daddy!” He flapped the Times at her with an imperious gesture. He had something across his knees. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner.
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