"Stir a foot, at your peril. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. She spoke with fluent enthusiasm. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. I know London better than you, and I have had to earn my own living.
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