“It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. She gulped for air merely, for it had been difficult to breathe with his hand almost cutting off the supply to her lungs. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. Folks don’t like ’em.
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