So Monday, when I see one of the maids come out with a basket, for to go fetch summat for that other Frenchie—the female as I told you about, miss, as is forever coming and going with the nobs. It slipped out—as did that “she”. Then a roar of hisses. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead.
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