. ’ ‘Oh, is he?’ Gerald said grimly. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. “It’s his birthday. But it is my fault. This morning his entourage (as he jestingly called it) consisted of the girl, two spinsters (Prudence and Angelina Jedson), prim and doubtful of the world, and the young man who appeared to be considerably the worse for the alcohol he had consumed. Is that it? I thought this very pretty.
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