Mr. Kneebone took his leave. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. “You are talking like a boy. “Cheveney!” she repeated. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. But only inside, you understand, that one cannot see it. "I'll take you into a Chinese home. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No.
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