] CHAPTER XI The second call energized her into action. Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house.
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