" Winifred looked as if she could not indulge such a supposition for a single moment. They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. Sit down, I command you. .
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