For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. “John’s here. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette. He was absolutely unable to focus his ideas. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield.
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