Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. He had done his best, pitching with determined fury that resulted in two outs. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved.
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