"Be silent," said Jonathan, in a menacing whisper. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. 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. Attempts were made upon the door of the Lodge; but it was too strong to be forced. " "Won't my life do as well as his?" supplicated the other. And instead he found her playing the great lady, and playing it well. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. It seemed to her in her restored geniality that she liked Manning extremely.
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