She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. Smiling, the Chinaman gave the correct pronunciation. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. Taking her limbs was the only thing I could do short of killing her. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. .
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