On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. Yes, this was a little better. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. She was in excellent spirits, and it was not until she had taken off her hat, and was considering the question of dinner or no dinner, that she remembered that another day had passed, and she was not a whit nearer being able to pay her tomorrow’s bill. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. I'll be outside the hotel at nine-thirty.
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