His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. “We sent for you several hours ago,” he remarked. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands.
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