‘You could have fetched me home. I hate children. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. He walked unsteadily towards the door. ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided. White, who had risen to greet her, proceeded with a formal, and from Anna’s point of view, a wholly unnecessary round of introductions. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her.
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