Which were perfectly true, as Gerald was aware. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. Lucy was sent reeling into a stone wall, which she hit with a great thud. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. Gerald’s breath caught.
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