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. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. . If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. She forbade him to escape to his workshop in the basement during those times, denying him his one and only hobby.
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