"Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. His instinct was in the direction of considering his daughters his absolute property, bound to obey him, his to give away or his to keep to be a comfort in his declining years just as he thought fit. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. .
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