Jack's former attempt to pass up the chimney, it may be remembered, was obstructed by an iron bar. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture.
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