The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. "How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. "Rot, weren't they?" "No. She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet.
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