He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. . . It’s not like we’re getting married. . It forbids—all sorts of things.
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