She took some shirts, underwear, shoes, a duffel bag, and his wallet to make it look like he had gone a-traveling. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. Sebastianus claimed to have met her back in Mantua after the betrothal. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. Yon must be mine to-night. 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. .
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