Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. A fresh cool breeze blew in their faces. “Umph!” he said, and regarded his letter doubtfully before consigning it to the pillar-box. Because every mistake you make, for every new mishap, Joe, I take a finger. Wood. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point.
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