We were to live in some wretched London suburb. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. Their conversation hung. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. “Hello, Gwen!” said Ann Veronica, trying to put every one at their ease. No man knew whence she had come nor why. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks.
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