“I mean to,” she replied. ’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. “John, don’t!” she cried. She could feel teenage girls from all corners of the room tensing, preparing to shriek. One called her very distinctly “My dear!” Two secretarial posts did indeed seem to offer themselves in which, at least, there was no specific exclusion of womanhood; one was under a Radical Member of Parliament, and the other under a Harley Street doctor, and both men declined her proffered services with the utmost civility and admiration and terror. It was clear that he meant to kiss her before she exited the car.
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