Ray Plote would
not leave a written explanation. 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. "Beg pardon, Sir Rowland," said the attendant, "but there's a boy from Mr. ‘I dare say the best plan will be for
me to bring her to see you, after all.
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