She closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot. That was something in his favour. I’ll kill you, Sheila, and I’ll kill her too. “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. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. ‘She wouldn’t tell me.
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