I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. In the rush of commuters he did not see her boarding his train. There was something very wrong.
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