She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. It looks so French to be affectionate.
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