You must forgive the poet’s license I take. He was always visualizing the Hand whenever he let his gaze rest upon the horizon. She didn’t like the shops, she didn’t like the other women’s faces; she thought the smirking men in frock-coats who dominated these establishments the most intolerable persons she had ever had to face. And you have to thank her presence, hot-headed boy, that I do not chastise your insolence as it deserves. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. "Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily.
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