“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. 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. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. " He then spoke authoritatively to the girl. Capes became rigid and adhesive. And he could not return this love. If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away.
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