Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. Master Thames Ditton, I'll do your biddin'; and you, Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you. She came to befriend the female mistresses, some who were even so audacious as to bring their children into the house. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman.
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