‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. “And some of them quite pretty and well dressed. . His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. ” “You will shake hands with me, please,” she begged. After all there are other things. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him.
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