He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. He’s the handle of life for you. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served.
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