My late husband, I mean. \" Michelle's mother replied from the front room in her sing-song tone. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. “I don’t think she will,” she said. He pulled away. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account.
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