It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. Sir John felt hot and furious. At the Palazzo she had been confined to her own sunny windowed quarters most of the time, but she had the entire run of the inside of the manor. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. It’s well hidden, miss.
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