The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year.
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