“You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Enter the house with your men. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. She has also been afflicted with occasional returns of her terrible malady.
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