"Why, it's like a laundry," exclaimed Patricia in disappointment as she looked about her. The low-ceiled whitewashed apartment into which they had descended from the winding iron stair was sepulchrally bare and empty in the flicker of its noisy gas jets, the rusty gas stoves at its farther end emphasizing its general air of desolation.,
"Then down through the bushes to that winding lane, I suppose?" said Jen. "I know all that; but afterward?",
"Why, of course," interrupted Isabella again. "Don't you remember. Dido, you were asked if you had taken it?".
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