The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season. "Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. ‘Come,’ she called. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary.
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