“I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation. Then he goes stony, and beats his way around the islands for another three months. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. Half a minute, Vee. "Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in.
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