After he had eaten dinner with Ruth, he had gone to McClintock's; and he had heard music such as he had heard only in the great concert halls. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. “Oh. I suppose you came right out and asked him about his family?’ ‘Nothing of the sort. He had brought her here to this place—where her freedom was curtailed even more than at the convent so that a cavalier was very much needed—and only on Monday came again.
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