She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. His glasses were gone. 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. The pavement had been hastily picked up, and heaped across the end of the street, upon which planks, barrels, and other barricades, were laid. On the way he confessed. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man.
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