‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. You don’t understand. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. 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. Sure, I lose one occasionally—if he stays in New York. Get a license—just an idea of mine. Stanley, in his effort to seem at ease, took entire possession of the hearthrug.
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