“TROUSERS!” she whispered. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. There were shadows under his eyes. “Before I met you I was deluded into receiving upon friendly terms a man named Hill, who passed himself off as Meysey Hill the railway man, but who was in reality an Englishman in poor circumstances. A sprinkling of callow youths, and a couple of pronounced young Jews, who were talking loudly together in some unintelligible jargon of the City. ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided.
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