At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. The applause was uproarious at the end of the concert. Don’t go back into Victorian respectability and pretend you don’t know and you can’t think and all the rest of it. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. It was on the night of the Great Storm that I found him. They were both dressed in every respect alike.
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