I can’t tell anyone certain things about my life. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. I don’t think they do matter. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. No, don’t let me call myself that. It is the vapouring school girl.
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