Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. His car was there. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times.
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