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. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. He got out of the car and lifted her from the convertible before she could open the door. The knowledge breathed into her heart a satisfying warmth. “Annabel?” he exclaimed. I don't think he'll come to himself too soon.
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