He knew she had been weeping. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. But I've an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard's story. There was no one else in the doorway. 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.
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