Ireton and his friends to taste it. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. The lady, who was indeed stunning, Gerald suddenly realised, said never a word. "Now—begin. "Of course," rejoined the bystander, who had just spoken, and who was of a cynical turn,—"the greater the rascal, the better they like him.
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