He was an odd one, especially for a young man. I'd have got something nice. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. The carte de jour was before Monsieur. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. I made it a point to bring beachcombers to the house to fill her with horror of mankind. Here your nephew will speedily be thrown. The evenings were dulcet and soft.
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