“You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. He was all alone, like herself. “We don’t pretend. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years.
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