He stepped in with a heavy foreboding of calamity. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. “This is MY thing,” said Ann Veronica, softly, with thoughtful eyes upon him. Satisfied, however, that she did not notice him, Jonathan glided away as noiselessly as he came, and ascended another short flight of stairs leading to the garret.
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