Her impressions of this cardinal ceremony were rich and confused, complicated by a quite transitory passion that awakened no reciprocal fire for a fat curly headed cousin in black velveteen and a lace collar, who assisted as a page. I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband—I have only him. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. You can’t do without an agent, and there’s no one can run you better than I can. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me.
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