"I understand," she said. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. If it is that I am in the least French, and that you do not like it—’ ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped the old man. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. She could feel her face turning beet red.
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