“Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said. Businesswomen in pointy-toed shoes swooned coyly in his direction, tipping their noses over their glossy magazines to admire 273 him. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road.
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