” “I will tell her,” Anna promised. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. ‘But a spy I am not. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. “I have come from a very unfashionable quarter,” she said, “and I do not think that I have been inside a milliner’s shop for a year. ” She drove off in a little fiacre, nodding and smiling at Sir John, who remained upon the Avenue. "What does Mr.
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