" Lady Trafford sighed deeply. Their colorful displays seemed to repel the dreariness of the sky as each group savored its long awaited moment, its weekend arrival in front of the opposite sex. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. ’ ‘Dieu du ciel! But this is catastrophe. You will find the certificate in my pocket. .
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