Stanley went on, “but there are things— there are stories about Ramage. “Dear me!” he said. So am I. He—wanted to marry me. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell. She missed them already. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any accident befel him. Her voice recalled him. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual.
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