I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. "I yield to fate. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. She was, she guessed, close to the library. ” “Nice clean hardness, anyhow. If you ask me, you’ll have to beat her regularly if you don’t want to live a dog’s life.
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