‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. He kissed her cheek. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. "What's the use of wasting a shot?" rejoined Jonathan, savagely. “One has such ridiculous ideas of the wicked common people and the beautiful machinery of order that ropes them in. In the distance a bell clanged, and chattering broke out in the doorway as several nuns came crowding in.
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