He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. She turned off the light and approached the window. She even touched lightly on her father’s unreasonableness. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. Little woman, you have been brave enough before.
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