\" They returned to his BMW. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. Here lay a heap of knockers of all sizes, from the huge lion's head to the small brass rapper: there, a collection of sign-boards, with the names and calling of the owners utterly obliterated. “You’re getting too old to put things off, John. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. 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. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead. "I hope not. Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said.
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