It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. I swear it. Then she reverted to the trousers. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. "Been to those places?" "No. Gone were the old days where an old maid banged on an upright piano above a roaring crowd, this sound was loud enough to be heard outside the building, she thought to herself as her eardrums throbbed.
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