But I am not indisposed to gratify you. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. Ruth could not be told now. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself.
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