"Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" Mrs. . S. 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. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine.
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