" He patted her hand. "Well, without immediate care he would have passed out. He pulled rein at the sight of her, saluted, and regarded her with his rather too protuberant eyes. He's now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland Trenchard. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. Mr. The City worried him a good deal, and what energy he had left over he spent partly in golf, a game he treated very seriously, and partly in the practices of microscopic petrography. .
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