The forgiveness and reconciliation was a cold and formal affair, and afterwards her father went off gloomily to his study, and Mr. "The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song.
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