The imbecile. But she was staring seaward and did not notice the offering. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations.
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