“You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. The colouring was green and white, with softly shaded electric lights, an alcove bedstead, which was a miracle of daintiness, white furniture, and a long low dressing-table littered all over with a multitude of daintily fashioned toilet appliances. In twenty minutes we meet in the hall, remember. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. She saw herself in very much Vivie’s position—managing something. It wasn’t. In Hamilton Place that is, like I told you before, miss. It's infernally provoking.
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