“I must confess,” he said, “the New Woman and the New Girl intrigue me profoundly. They are more base then the animals and cannot be suffered to live, do you understand?” She nodded. Or else I would have finished him. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. They do a good job, huh?” He smiled at her. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. Vorsack looked pale and pink. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. ‘You will like to marry me, yes?’ she pursued. Yes, of course. “Show me around you house, John. 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.
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