Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. She smiled encouragingly, laying aside her plate and turning her chair from the table. He backed away from her. ToC "How do you mean to act, Sir?" inquired Trenchard, as soon as they were left alone.
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