She hated the manor. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. I am your servitor. “I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. McClintock liked it.
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