“I believe,” he said stiffly, “that these are the apartments of Miss Pellissier. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. She turned them down and gently placed the violin back in its red fake fur lined chamber.
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