“It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. On the way he confessed.
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