" "You did right," returned Trenchard. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. That’s why I come to tell you. "No, I won't hear you, murderer," rejoined Wood.
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