The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. A fever of shame ran through her being. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces.
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