He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. It was a capital diversion; and as usual the Leatherneck bested the Britisher, in seven rounds.
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