Hogarth," remarked Jack, dejectedly. ’ ‘He let them go?’ asked Miss Froxfield incredulously. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Every home is a little recess, a niche, out of the world of business and competition, in which women and the future shelter.
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