The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. ” “I’m not surprised at it. “If you wish,” he said, “I will go there in the morning and see what can be done for him. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort.
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