She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. How long has Miss Charvill been in England?’ ‘Not long, sir. Sheppard. ’ Gerald eyed her. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. 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.
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