No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. Lucy entered the room. “Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify.
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