"What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. Suppose our proper place is a shrine. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. 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. “I believe,” he said slowly, “that I shall do best to throw myself upon your consideration and tell you the truth.
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