“How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. The stranger with a bow returned to his table. Worse than any man. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Manning, with a sweep of the arm. Gerald sympathised with his friend’s irritation. "That's for Winifred," vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily upon his shoulder.
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