“I can’t conceive what you want. Softly she rose to her feet. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. Between comrades it is the most usual thing in the world, and I do not see how your sex intervenes.
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