He did not particularly care. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. But the offences I have committed are venial in comparison with what I should commit were I to wed your father. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. “Do you happen to know whether she is supposed to be here?” “Very likely indeed,” Captain Fred Meddoes answered, lighting a cigarette. In this way, they reached Holborn Bridge.
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