There's our young friend upstairs. Lord, I am sixty. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. “Yes. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. So that way is closed. Prudence shook her head. Ann Veronica intervened a little in the novelist discussion with a defence of Esmond and a denial that the Egoist was obscure, and when she spoke every one else stopped talking and listened.
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