Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. The performance over, he relaxed and closed his eyes. " "No," cried the lady, "this room—I recollect—it has a back window. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak. The fireplace was at the other end, with the sheeted shapes of two sofas either side. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. A hansom stopped a little way off.
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