“It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. He is an awfully good sort— and now he has come to me to help him if I can. “Splendid you are looking to-day, Miss Stanley,” he said. ” “How can you say such things?” “But he would!” “Still, it isn’t your place to say so. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. Women who Dids, and all that kind of thing. This she would not endure. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in.
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