The man’s passion was infectious. I want to get away—to go to London. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. It was hard to meet that gaze. He seemed to be hesitating between two courses of action. The manager twisted his moustache. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course. ‘That is a very English name.
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