She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Manning, in an earnest voice, and waved his hand to the alley of mauve and purple. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty.
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