In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. “You’re very nice, both of you,” she said gently. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid.
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