” “Where do you go?” “Oh!—Alps. “It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter.
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