His
little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie"
was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents,
lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her
paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was
yellow with dandelions.
"The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer
Street will never be the same again."
As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman
came out of her.
"Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her
parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull
those things down at once!"
Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage
and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't
turn out Miss Flack."
"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the
contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in
her nephew's time?"
"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very
vulgar, and almost bedridden.
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