Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. His car, a black Alfa Romeo, waited at the end of the subdivision. Life is two things, that’s how I see it; two things mixed and muddled up together. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life.
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