Earles’ waiting-room who would march you straight off to a registrar’s office. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society.
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