“And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. And Charcam, fearful of another charge in his master's present uncertain mood, disappeared. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door.
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