They were enormously pleased with one another; they found each other beyond measure better than they had expected, if only because of the want of substance in mere expectation. It never has had. There was Major Price—you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,—he stumbled as he was getting out of his chair at that very gate. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. “No, no,” she cried. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head.
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