The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. They went first to a hotel, and then out again on to the boulevards. It’s the sort of way a woman always does gloss over her ethical positions. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. Of course he hadn't played the game wisely. “I don’t think I CAN do that,” she said. It's a long time since we met, eight years and more.
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