There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. “What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?—and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?” Anna shook her head. Anna sprang lightly away across the street. When he returned, it was always the same. Were you born here, madame?’ ‘Mais non. '" "Let me see," cried Jack, snatching the paper, and eagerly perusing the advertisement.
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