“Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. The starling, on which the carpenter stood, was the fourth from the Surrey shore. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise.
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