Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. “What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?—and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?” Anna shook her head. Thames, you needn't tidy yourself, as you've hurt your arm. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. I had no curiosity of that kind. .
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