Agreeably he helped her take the shirt off. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn’t it—wasn’t it rather in some respects—rather a lark? It’s one of my regrets for my lost youth. He used to live in a boarding-house in Russell Square. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. He looked from the sword to the dagger with which he had brought her down here, and grimaced. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason.
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