Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. I wish to prevent a repetition of any such errand as I presume you have come here upon this evening.
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