“Hello?” She asked as she cradled the phone by her ear. "But if it is your mother, send her about her business. Manning? I suppose there’s a sort of place like a ticket-office. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. “Now,” he said, quietly, “it’s time we stopped this nonsense. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. One of the sampans was hailed, and a ropeladder was lowered.
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