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. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. ‘Merci, dieu. If he wished, he could even take this inheritance from her. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. So he decided to stay. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse.
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