When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. We shall never have an heir, you and I! My family is crumbling; all of my brothers are dead. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door.
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