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. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. “Not to-night,” she said. But they cut it all off. He smiled grandly; she could feel the radiance of his approval from across the wedding table.
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