She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard.
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