She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. Yet through these talks, these meetings and conferences, these movements and efforts, Ann Veronica, for all that she went with her friend, and at times applauded with her enthusiastically, yet went nevertheless with eyes that grew more and more puzzled, and fine eyebrows more and more disposed to knit. “Afterwards,” she said, “I should be perfectly content to have everything done for me. After all, if Valade—or no, what did you say was the villain’s name?’ ‘Gosse,’ Melusine supplied.
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