“Before I took up the Suffrage,” a firm, flat voice remarked, “I could scarcely walk up-stairs without palpitations. You may go back, Marthe. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. “I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy.
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