She was consumed by misery and hate. “They have all been trying to turn my head. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. It was impulsive and natural. One of the reasons why I decline to talk is this: that boy's punishment will be enough. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. The key is in my trousers. I've an idea it'll be that long before the chap gets up.
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