Would to God I had. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. Better check on Remenham House, I suppose. Await me in the coach. I was in the front row, and I fancied she smiled at me.
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