CHAPTER VIII. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. He noted the strong white teeth as they snipped the thread. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. That's the sort of fool your nephew is!" "Not even a good time!" said the aunt, whimsically, as she stuffed the bills into her reticule. A few more minutes, and she was safe. ’ Melusine’s eyes misted. Don’t go back into Victorian respectability and pretend you don’t know and you can’t think and all the rest of it.
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