‘And me, I am a lady. For he come after her, did Mr Charvill. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. ‘Get you invited to a party where the French émigrés will be present? Nothing easier, dear boy. He's passed through some rough mental torture. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up.
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