The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. "How long shall I be here?" he asked. I never saw a man who wasn't. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. .
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