She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. She had asked about that already, and her father had replied, evasively: “We’ll have to see about that, little Vee; we’ll have to see about that. There it was—to be borrowed. Wood in very characteristic attitudes, occupied a prominent place on the walls. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Unlocking it, he entered the chamber, which by no means belied its external appearance. “Never mind me. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. ” She said. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said.
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