She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. We shall have—hardly any money. Here's the——" "Let me have one," cried a servant maid, running across the street, and in her haste forgetting to shut the door,—"here's the money. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice.
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