Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. The door was locked; but, with the bars of iron, it was speedily burst open. . His face turned a dark crimson. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. But what he did say is that he thinks the Valades will receive very short shrift from his greatuncle the general. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls. Fool that I was to marry for beauty! I ought to have remembered that a fair woman and a slashed gown always find some nail in the way. “The Widgetts,” she said. I jumped then—I was not even shaken.
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