The hardest bout I ever had was with a woman—Sally Wells, who was afterwards lagged for shoplifting. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. You have not considered the advantages. She spoke slowly. A silence ensued. He would have some sport with Mr. I am an independent sort of person,” she continued, “and I am engaged in an attempt to earn my own living. You're in a more serious scrape than you imagine. ) You are all the slender goddesses.
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