They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. “Hello!” said Ann Veronica, with arms akimbo and a careless, breathless manner. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. ‘You were his daughter.
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