Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. “Come this way,” he said. I thought I’d see Paris, do the thing—like a toff. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. "So, you young fool, I have found you!" she said, harshly.
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