David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. His hands came up, his face broke apart. His eyes caught at hers with passionate inquiries. She was not very clear about the position and duties of a chorus-girl, but it certainly had the air of being a last desperate resort. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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