"These writer chaps are queer birds. I shall quit it and go abroad. And yet, when you offered to help, it was what is to come that I had in mind. Do you indeed remember? The smell of decay and cheap methylated spirit!. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. He won’t be in uniform. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite.
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