My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. He was alarmed when she returned to the stage and her eyes passed over him in the audience. Not my affair, of course, but I think we ought to teach them more or restrain them more. “I don’t know, John. ” She turned a firelit face to her husband.
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