"The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. "Take it," cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; "take it, and fly. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. "I can't say I did," replied Wood, somewhat reluctantly; "what with the confusion incident to the storm, and the subsequent press of business, I put it off till it was too late. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. "Tomorrow I shall have a visitor. “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. A crisis of some kind was toward. "I shall need little more. “It is very doubtful,” he said.
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