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. "I've just recollected that my husband left a key with me, which he charged me to give you when I could find an opportunity. I was in hopes you'd be content with my hat and wig. That might happen on her birthday—in August. ” She turned away. He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is. I don’t believe in the faults. She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window. “I don’t see quite what your game is, Vee, but I suppose you’ve got a game on somewhere.
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