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It's gin—a liquor you used to like. He hesitated. You may go back, Marthe. His spirits began to rise. The girl nodded sagely. There sprang from that a vague hope that perhaps she might extort a capitulation from her father by a threat to seek that position, and then with overwhelming clearness it came to her that whatever happened she would never be able to tell her father about her debt. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. 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. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny.
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