"Do you think I would take a harlot to my bed, if it didn't suit my purposes to do so?" "He says right," replied Mrs. . 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. They say it hasn't been opened for eight years—but I won't be eight years in getting out of it. Her father was distinctly irascible, and disposed more than ever to hide away among the petrological things—the study was turned out.
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