‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. "You are alone?" said one of the spinsters—Prudence Jedson. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. The confirmed drunkard's mouth at length sets itself peculiarly; it becomes the mark by which thoughtful men know him. Lucy vomited onto the floor at the sight of her mother dying, the black spots expanding across her corpse. Now the doctor had the "feel" that somewhere ahead lay danger. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s.
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