I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. Ann Veronica halted a pace, and Miss Klegg came alongside.
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