Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. “You’re so cute. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Let’s go on climbing now. Die game.
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