Shari squealed, clutching her towel around her. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. Sheila decided to do a little laundry one day, clothes that were in Lucy’s hamper, a dirty clothes bin that Lucy had insisted that she have for herself separate from the family one. There’s stories, too, about his demonstrator, Capes Something or other. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other.
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