“It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. Ann Veronica decided that “hoydenish ragger” was the only phrase to express her. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position.
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