“I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. Kneebone assumed a mysterious air; and bringing his lips close to Mrs. ‘Who’d believe me? And I’d have to tell my part in it all, too. "Mr. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. She makes catty comments about you to her friends if you are within hearing distance—that’s her thing—then if you are brave enough to confront her, she just denies it all and laughs at you. With this person—who was no other than Mr. ” “At any rate,” she declared, “your remarks decided me. “We are clerks in the same bank. " "Then you are hurt," cried the carpenter in alarm.
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