“They ought to have been lopped in the spring. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. " "The Black Lion!" echoed Terence. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. “What do you mean?” Lucy asked.
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