He waved a cordial goodbye. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. She elected to go to prison. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. Most of my people are upstairs dressing for dinner. And she’s pluck to the backbone. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle. ‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas.
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