The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. Ann Veronica found herself in a little stirring crowd of excited women, whispering and tittering and speaking in undertones. You are afraid of kisses. “Ann Veronica has never looked quite so well, I think,” said Capes, clinging, because of a preconceived plan, to the suppressed topic. His head bent down, intent on kissing her underneath the showerhead. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris.
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