The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. . Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. Her hair was held back in a filigreed barrette. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable. They sat in the windowed booth at the restaurant across from each other. Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband.
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