She entered the kitchen. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. “It was inevitable,” he declared. ” He made a little noise in his throat as if something had cried out within him, and for a time they were both too full for speech. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air.
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