He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it. “Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. His advice was mostly practical. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone.
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