For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. I have seen many of them. Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. Instead of which, more than half an hour has elapsed. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. I went to her rooms to-night.
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