A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. “Yes, but I act older than I look. Then he turned on his heel and walked off. “Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know.
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