I’m convinced that much of Russell’s investigations are on wrong lines, unsound lines. Miss Stanley, it was manifest, had given him Ann Veronica’s address. They give themselves airs, but so it is. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. He had seldom been more perturbed. “Now, there, there. Mr. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. “What a little brick!” he murmured.
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