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The Pretty Lady by Arnold Bennett
page 17 of 323 (05%)
remembered, the watch would have been perfectly safe till he called
for it. The hour was five minutes to midnight. He was just going.
Christine had dropped a little batch of black and red Treasury
notes on to the dressing-table with an indifferent if not perhaps
an impatient air, as though she held these financial sequels to be
a stain on the ideal, a tedious necessary, a nuisance, or simply
negligible.

She kissed him goodbye, and felt agreeably fragile and soft within
the embrace of his huge, rough overcoat. And she breathed winningly,
delicately, apologetically into his ear:

"Thou wilt give something to the servant?" Her soft eyes seemed to
say, "It is not for myself that I am asking, is it?"

He made an easy philanthropic gesture to indicate that the servant
would have no reason to regret his passage.

He opened the door into the little hall, where the fat Italian maid
was yawning in an atmosphere comparatively cold, and then, in a change
of purpose, he shut the door again.

"You do not know how I knew you could not have been in London very
long," he said confidentially.

"No."

"Because I saw you in Paris one night in July--at the Marigny
Theatre."

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