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Gosse were you born, and Gosse will you remain to your death. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. I know who she is, and I know that she has been cheated somehow by the people calling themselves Valade. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. The man Hill has persecuted me for months—ever since I have been in England. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. The door was then locked, and he was left alone. I'm not sure I'd go out with him anyway. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo.
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