There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. “Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best. If not, I have plenty to think about,” she answered, leaning back in her chair, and watching the smoke from her own cigarette curl upwards. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation.
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