Michelle looked at Lucy's feet, still in the ugly brown loafers she had worn since last year. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn.
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