’ ‘Yes, but I’m hanged if I see what your game is. Run along while I rig up and get the part in my hair straight. ” “Won’t you postpone the attempt, then?” he said gallantly, “until I have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not forget—seven-thirty, Café Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes. Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. Nor was Jack by any means the only stripling in the room.
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