The air was crisp and dry. He smiled. Winifred, you are deceived in me. It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. “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.
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