“Yes. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. A boy can forget his amatory troubles playing baseball; but a girl can't find any particular distraction in doing fancy work. You act your part capitally, but it won't do. E. Gosse had to release his clamp on her mouth, for the awkwardness of the position made it impossible to negotiate the little stair. Amidship there was also canvas, and like that over the wheel, drab and dirty. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. “Look here! Aren’t you going a little too far? This—this is degradation—making a fuss with sleeves. ” “I am staying,” she answered coolly, “at a small boarding-house near Russell Square.
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