Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. 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. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. "Farewell for ever," said Jack, extending his hand to Mrs. Surely he was imagining this picture.
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