I—In fact, I dislike him extremely. A brisk talk sprang up between Capes and Mr. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. We dressed it in a little music. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. ‘And your schooling?’ he pursued.
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