“Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed. ’ While he trod a deliberate path through the pink saloon towards the door, Gerald encouraged a flow of harmless chatter about the people Madame had met and the parties she had attended. A dozen shynesses and intellectual barriers were being outflanked or broken down in her mind. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. Annabel, I was lying.
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