“An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. ’ Martha got up with a swish of her black habit. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. White. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine.
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