She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. “Never was such an age of transition. Her sensitive ears could hear her foster mother snoring in front of the television. “Well, I don’t think you told him as much as that, did you?” Lady Lescelles asked.
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