She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. He raised her to a sitting position. "Thames!—Thames!" cried Winifred, rushing to the window. ‘Sir?’ Hilary threw a brief glance at Trodger, and quickly returned his intent gaze to the Frenchman, who had halted once more, and stood as if thinking deeply. The other lay unconscious in a heap. He picked up the remote and sat himself to her right. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. She was gathering quite a crowd in her newfound popularity, and the phenomenon was so apparent she could almost form her own harem of young boys. This costume, though somewhat extravagant, displayed his slight, but perfectly-proportioned figure to the greatest advantage. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. ‘I am saying so,’ protested Gerald mildly. " "Did I ask for it?" "Yes. There, in a little tea and sweetstuff shop, she bought and consumed slowly and absent-mindedly the insufficient nourishment that is natural to her sex on such occasions.
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