Who’s for a rubber of whist?” Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. He had “put his foot down,” and said she must not go. Ah, no, I have it wrong. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre.
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