“Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. “You are very stupid, Anna,” she said. ” She gazed at him. Ennison?” Sir John hesitated. Had he been listening inside? ‘What is amiss?’ ‘That Frenchie, sir. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher. "That gown is getting shabby. Ann Veronica brought her luggage in a cab from the hotel; she tipped the hotel porter sixpence and overpaid the cabman eighteenpence, unpacked some of her books and possessions, and so made the room a little homelike, and then sat down in a by no means uncomfortable arm-chair before the fire. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. It doesn't look bad, does it?" "Mercy, no! That wasn't the thought. ” Ennison took an easy chair.
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