For a time Ann Veronica went on her way gauging the quality of sordid streets. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. “I have come from a very unfashionable quarter,” she said, “and I do not think that I have been inside a milliner’s shop for a year.
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