Mr. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat.
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