The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations. That was supposed to be Madame Valade. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. All the world before you, all the ologies. Russell trouble, a good lot of trouble. . .
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