They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. Emile’s fist crashed into her temple and stars exploded in her vision. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. “But I have forbidden it!” he said, raising his voice. “It’s a matter of feeling with me.
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