The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. 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. I’m anxious, joyfully anxious, like a man when he has found a treasure.
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