“I love you. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. “Go on,” he said.
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