Larry Beck did his best to the flares of her temper from rising. You know my fixed determination. Of course, one doesn’t like to talk about things until there are things to talk about. 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. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. The smile had become a laugh. Her aunt leaped unhappily to the thought of penitence.
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