“You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. Lucy’s cool. dear. Whenever you grow impatient with her, remember the folly of her father. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets.
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