“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. The sounds of the seashore infiltrated her dreams as she floated in heavenly bliss of sleep.
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