It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. “I suppose you’ll come to the point soon—if there is one. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. ’ ‘From a convent? Even if I wished to do it, I could not. ” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical. After all, you may easily come to fetch Mrs Ibstock when you need her.
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