“Can we watch television?” She asked. 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. Perhaps it was loneliness. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. "What's the matter, father!" continued the new-comer, addressing Wood. ’ ‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ he agreed soothingly, ‘and you may rail at me presently as much as you please.
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