She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. "But McClintock agrees to take you both—because he's as big a fool as I am. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. "You hear that," cried Mrs. . She despises me, I suppose.
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