She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars. The Red Room. Sheppard, with a deep sigh, perceiving that her benefactor hesitated to pronounce the word. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required.
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