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. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. Winifred, accordingly, left the room, and a servant being despatched to the nearest tavern, soon afterwards returned with a crown bowl of the ambrosian fluid. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “I wonder would you mind seeing who it is. Find them at Remenham House—if you can.
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