He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. “Not at all. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. I shall know what to say to him when he comes. “Soon enough, John.
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