“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. ” He appeared to be paralyzed by abstruse acoustic calculations. “How ridiculous! Fancy you with all that money! For heaven’s sake, though, do not go about playing the Don Quixote like this. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. . These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. But not so much a pig as that man. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong.
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