One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. It made her laugh, which in turn made him laugh. Kneebone said, just now. Jackson’s. The inn was a military haunt. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him.
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