She was gone. Ann Veronica brought her luggage in a cab from the hotel; she tipped the hotel porter sixpence and overpaid the cabman eighteenpence, unpacked some of her books and possessions, and so made the room a little homelike, and then sat down in a by no means uncomfortable arm-chair before the fire. "Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. You'd better lose no time. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate.
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