Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. Nothing else weighs against it. And what took you to Remenham House?’ ‘I shall come to that presently,’ said Gerald cautiously. The door opened. I’ve tried to use my authority. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own.
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