She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. It was only some hours after that these ambiguous elements evaporated and vanished and loathing came, and she really began to be thoroughly sick and ashamed of the whole disgraceful quarrel and scuffle. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. Don't feel fussed upon my account.
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