"It's almost as bad as being a tare," she said to Primrose. "Dear,
dear! I never thought I should turn into an attic! What an unpleasant
place London is! I begin to think Poppy is quite right in what she
says of it."
"I begin to suspect," said Primrose, "that London, like all places,
has its shady side and its bright side. We are in the shady side at
present, dear Jasmine--that is all."
Mrs. Dove had not only lodgers who seemed to worry her from morning to
night--for, unlike her name, she was always fretting or scolding
somebody--but she also had a husband, and this husband made his
presence felt by every lodger in the house. He was often away for a
whole week at a time, and then comparative peace reigned in No. 10;
but he would come back at unexpected moments--he would enter the
house, singing out, in a loud rasping voice--
"Mrs. Dove,
My only love!"
And then poor Mrs. Dove would get flushed and uncomfortable and lose
what little self-possession she ever had, and would own in confidence
to the first floor, or the second floor, or the attics, just as they
happened to be present, that Mr. Dove's honeyed phrases were only
words after all, and meant quite the contrary.
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