Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. “He is not—I don’t like him. I do not care in the least. Womanhood is sacred to me. .
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