She’s a queer-looking girl, he thought, suddenly remembering Elizabeth as she came into the room and stood by her mother. Grown big; quite grown-up, not exactly pretty; handsome rather; and she can’t be more than eighteen. Probably she doesn’t get on with Clarissa. “There’s my Elizabeth” —that sort of thing—why not “Here’s Elizabeth” simply? —trying to make out, like most mothers, that things are what they’re not. She trusts to her charm too much, he thought. She overdoes it
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