" "Peace, fool!" cried Marvel, angrily. "It's very well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to death with this confounded clothes'-bag. Almost light-heartedly. "To-morrow it will be mine. It’s—it’s a serious prohibition. ‘Poor Hilary. Always. Much too young for you. And it is your own fault that your husband dallies with me. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige.
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