His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. You must come and tell me all about it, although I am not sure whether we shall forgive you for not having written to any of us. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. "What has happened?" asked Sister Prudence. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. There all the loose characters thronged, assignations were openly made, and the spectators diverted themselves with the vagaries of its miserable inhabitants.
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