The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. This was the bitterest hour he had ever known. It had neither succumbed to her nor wrathfully overwhelmed her. ‘But this is not to my blame, grandpére. He looked at her with an expression of comical despair.
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