I didn’t ought to have sent for him. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. I did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu. They are their mother’s sons. Twenty guineas, mind.
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