‘I may have been only a secretary, but times are changing. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow. She had never dreamed of such decadence, never imagined that young people could be so happy and healthy. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. It was Annabel’s. It is a most wonderful piece of good fortune, as I suppose you will be prepared to admit.
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