"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. There was a confused impression of livery carriages and whips with white favors, people fussily wanting other people to get in before them, and then the church. Accepting his glass from the butler, Gerald glanced at Mrs Sindlesham and saw a dimple peep out. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone.
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