Away over those tree-tops is a faint purpurine pall, and below it lies London, with its strife and its misery, its wickedness and its vanity.

Twenty minutes would take me into the heart of it.

And if I chose I could be as struggling, as wretched, as much imbued with wickedness and vanity as anybody.

I could gamble on the stock exchange, or play the muddy game of politics, or hawk my precious title for sale among the young women of London society.
My Aunt Jessica once told me that London was at my feet.

I am quite content that it should stay there.