We were to live in some wretched London suburb. “It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. “My dear Anna,” he answered. ” He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery.
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