Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. But now it was all over, and Alice was getting on well. “Is this Montague Street, W. “Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat.
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